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PROEM 

11    ITHIN  the  portals  of  this 
WW       book  abound. 

Woven    with    beaten  gold,    the 
thoughts  profound. 

That  stir  the  soul  to  ecstasy  and 
bring 

The  Poefs  flights  of  fancy  on  the 
wing 

To  falter  at  thy  feet.    Here  may 
they  reach 

The  silent  chambers  of  thy  heart, 
and  teach 

That  this,   our  only  mission,  is 
to  send 

To  thee  a  heart-throb.  Comrade, 
Brother,  Friend! 

Q.  Warren  London. 


LeWDES 


K 


THIS  •  EDITION  •  DE  •  LUXE  •  IS  •  LIMITED 

TO  ■  SIX  •  HUNDRED  ■  COPIES 

OF  ■  WHICH  ■  THIS  •  IS 

No.      r-?   CL 


Published    in     the     Year 

Sixteen    of    the 

Pleiades 


Copyright     1910    by   the 

Pleiades     Club, 

N.  Y. 


C<     o     n 


1     D     u     t 


o 


Aimee  (ireene-Abbott 

Rol)ert  S.  Anient 

E.  M.  Ashe 

A.  J.  Bjoi-ustad 

Fred  S.   Blossom 

Charles   Itoy  Bowers 

Nell  Brinkley 

O.  Cesai'e 

Irviii  S.  Cobb 

Carter  S.  Cole 

Georj;e  Elliott   Cooley 

Willard  D.  Coxey 

II.   K.   Crannier 

John   Campbell  Delano 

Dorothy  Dix 

H.  B.  Eddy 

Harry  C.  Edwards 

Anthony  II.  Enwer 

Lee  Fairehild 

Arthur   Farwell 

Thomas  Fosarty 

E.   Fuhr 

Eugene  fleary 

John   II.   (ire.us 

William  B.  (ireen 

Jeflie  Forbusli-IIanaford 

John  Harrison 

S.   Frances   Ilerschel 

Kingston  llengler 

Karl  Ilassmann 

John  E.  Ilazzard 

Dixie  nines 

M.  Torre  Hood 

Harry  Johnson 

A.  I.  Keller 

George  Kerr 

Carrie  Van  Deusen   King 

W.    Krieghof 

W.  J.  Lampton 

Laura  Fitzluigh  Lance 

G.  Warren  Landon 

Annabelle  Lee 


Richard  LeGallienne 

R.  A.   Liiders 

Katheriue  Fitzhugh  Mc.Vllister 

Roy  L.   McCardell 

Hector  Mcl'herson 

Adrien  Machefert 

G.  Micbelson 

Phillip  Verrill  Mighels 

E.  II.  Miner 

F.  Luis  Mora 
B.  V.  Nadherny 
Frank  A.  Xankivell 
Howard  S.   Neiman 
r'rank  L.  Xorris 

O    liana  San 

Alexander  Popini 

J.  W.  Postgare 

Maud  G.  Pride 

Henry   Raleigh 

Henry  Reuterdahl 

Louis  Rhead 

John  Jerome  Rooney 

Helen  Rowland 

Maurice  V.  Samuels 

Jehu  W.  Sargent 

Eleanor  Schorer 

Charlotte  P..  Scott 

Charles  L.  Sicard 

Dan  Smith 

Fraucesca  di  Maria   Spaulding 

Arthur   Stahlschmidt 

W.  J.  Steinigans 

Albert  Sterner 

W.  D.  Stevens 

Henry   Tyrrell 

Mabel    IIerl)ert   Urner 

Wm.  Van  Benthuysen 

John  P.  Wade 

Ryan  Walker 

II.   S.   Watson 

Paul   West 

Luther  S.  White 


by  Henry  Tyrrell. 

Illustration  hu  Dan    l^niilh. 


"A  criticism  of  life,"  says 
Matthew  Arnold. 

"The  rhythmic  creation  of 
beauty,"  says  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
— defining  the  art  of  lyric  poetry. 


What  Is  Arl? 


"The  end  of  art,"  says  Victor  Cousin  (combining  Plato 
and  Aristotle),  "is  the  expression  of  moral  beauty  by  the 
assistance  of  physical  beauty." 

But  apply  these  and  other  bromidic  definitions  to  the  art 
and  literature  of  to-day — measure  them  up  against  the  Sun- 
day newspaper,  or  "Peter  Pan"  at  the  theatre,  or  picture 
exhibitions  of  the  Independent  Artists  and  the  followers  of 
Matisse — and  assuredly  there  is  something  wrong,  either  with 
the  definitions  or  with  the  art. 

Then  turn  to  Emile  Zola,  and  take  from  him  this  follow- 
ing dictum,  which  comes  very  close  to  being  invulnerable: 

''A  work  of  art  is  a  bit  of  nature  seen  through  a  tem- 
perament." 

This  takes  in  all  the  schools,  as  well  as  the  fiery,  untamed 
spirits  who  would  break  away  from  schools  altogether.  Art 
is  always  the  same;  temperaments  differ  and  become 
warped.  The  academician's  temperamental  glass  is  ruled 
off  into  formal  geometrical  patterns,  and  he  sees  nature  as 
a  kind  of  problem  in  perspective.  The  rabid  "impression- 
ist" looks  within  himself,  and  away  from  nature,  and  "sees 
things"  which  don't  exist  for  anyone  else.  The  true  artist 
gazes  straight  out  upon  nature,  and  forgets  himself,  and  art 
comes  to  him  "as  easily  as  lying." 

"What  the  poet  writes. 
He  writes:  mankind  accepts  it  if  it  suits. 
And  that's  success.     If  not,  the  poem's  passed 
From  hand  to  hand,  and  yet  from  hand  to  hand. 
Until  the  unborn  snatch  it,  crying  out 
In  pity  on  their  fathers'  being  so  dull, — 
And  that's  success,  too." 


"Music    is    a    woman, 
said  Richard  Wagner.   We 
may    well    go    further   and 
say:    Music    is    a    mother. 
It   is   by   no   mere   chance 


M 


USIC 


that  the  Germans  speak  of  Frau  Musica.  The  devo- 
tion of  Music  to  humanity,  in  its  varying,  growing  and 
innumerable  needs,  is  the  eternal  and  utter  devotion  of  a 
mother  to  her  child.  Music  is  ever  present,  ever  watchful, 
ready  to  sing  to  man,  whatsoever  his  need,  whether  of  con- 
solation, of  courage,  or  of  love.  Nor  does  she  forsake  him 
in  his  evil  hour,  when  none  but  darker  passions  can  touch 
his  heart.  She  will  go  with  her  children  to  the  deepest 
depths,  and  if  thus  terrible  has  become  their  need,  she  will 
yield  to  them  her  heartbroken  sympathy  even  in  their  hate 
and  their  lust. 

Music  will  make  all  sacrifice  for  men.  At  the  cost  of 
fearful  pains  of  growth,  she  will  change  her  nature  with 
their  growing,  or  even  their  perverse  needs.  Let  her  living 
sons  but  call  upon  her  to  forsake  her  earlier  nature  to  sym- 
pathize with  the  broader  and  deeper  consciousness  which 
they  have  wrung  from  life  in  their  battle  with  circumstance, 
and  unhesitatingly  she  responds.  She  will  indulge  a  prodigal 
Strauss  or  a  Debussy,  even  to  his  own  harm,  and  she  yields 
her  best  only  to  him  whose  sympathy  has  made  him  one  with 
the  deep  and  simple  heart  of  humanity. 

In  America's  present  need  of  songs  breathing  the  freedom 
and  courage  of  the  New  World,  Music,  the  all-mother,  is 
present  and  watchful,  and  will  stand  by  her  latest  son  until 
he  is  full  grown  and  strong. 


<t 


-=-    ^  iterature 

by  Carter  S.  Cole. 

niiistiation  by  Dan  Smilh. 

If  it  were  proposed  to  give, 
in  a  brief  statement  on  this  sub- 
ject, even  a  succinct  account  of 
the  whole  field,  or  the  simplest 
sort  of  scientific  review,  there 
would  be  little  room  for  any- 
thing else  to  appear  in  this 
volume.  In  fact,  one  deserv- 
edly    famous    frankly    avowed 


Liieralure 

that  he  would  not  attempt  to  say  anything  on  the  subject 
unless  he  had  given  the  matter  at  least  a  month's  careful 
consideration,  and  yet  it  is  much  more  than  likely  that  the 
clientele  for  whom  this  particular  book  is  especially  de- 
signed would  not  take  the  trouble  to  read  an  article  that 
had  been  prepared  after  such  prolonged  and  ponderous 
thought. 

The  one  thing  that  has  characterized  all  literature,  even 
before  the  art  of  printing  was  known,  no  matter  what  may 
be  the  definition  of  the  word,  is  this:  Whatever  has  pith, 
human  interest,  originality  and  action,  however  slowly  it 
may  have  worried  its  way  through  the  tired  or  befuddled 
brain  of  those  persons  whose  privilege  it  is  to  see  the  matter 
before  publication,  will  be  quick  to  catch  the  eye  of  an 
ever  alert  public. 

This  is  as  true  of  science  as  of  fiction:  as  universal  in 
poetry  as  in  prose.  A  single  illustration  will  suffice:  Quite 
recently  a  book,  in  many  ways  abstruse,  appealing,  appar- 
ently, to  a  limited  class  of  readers,  had  just  that  touch  of 
tenderness,  that  trail  of  truth,  that  caused  a  tremendous  sale, 
and  exhausted  the  edition  in  a  remarkably  short  time. 

It  was  once  asked  what  part  of  a  newspaper  was  most 
interesting;  the  answer  from  many  readers  and  from  many 
lands  was  practically  the  same:  it  depends  entirely  upon 
who  does  the  reading.  This  is  quite  as  true  of  literature 
in  general  as  of  one  part.  When  we  reflect  for  an  instant 
we  must  acknowledge  that  in  every  thinker's  life  there  are 
periods  that  differ  materially  in  the  attitude  towards  read- 
ing; that  some  special  line  is  apt  to  predominate,  even  in 
one  who  is  known  to  be  a  general  reader:  it  may  vary  with 
time,  place,  conditions — in  fact,  under  almost  all  conceiv- 
able circumstances — but  there  is  never  a  time  when  there 
are  not  more  readers  in  any  line  than  there  are  books  worth 
while  to  meet  their  needs,  or  to  satisfy  their  demands;  in 
short,  it  is  just  as  true  to-day  as  before  or  since  the  thought 
was  expressed  in  words — Brains  are  always  at  a  premium. 


"All  the  world's  a  stage. 
And   men    and   women    merely 
players." 


The  profession  of  the 
player  is  one  of  the  oldest 
recognized  and  in  its  growth 
and  achievement  stands  fore- 
most of  all  the  arts. 

In   its   crudest   form   little 


The  Placer. 

is  known,  but  as  a  profession  it  may  properly  date  from  the 
Chinese  and  Grecian  periods,  when  players  were  chosen 
from  among  the  infant  slaves  and  trained  to  the  art  by 
masters,  not  unlike  the  painter  and  the  bard. 

To  the  immortal  genius  of  Shakespeare  does  the  world 
owe  its  inexpressible  appreciation  of  the  artistic  develop- 
ment, realizing  to  the  fullest  degree  the  possibilities,  and 
subsequently  the  mastery,  of  the  art,  placing  it  at  once  on 
the  highest  pinnacle  of  achievement  and  according  to  it  the 
laurel  of  universal  popularity. 

To  this  genius  is  added  that  of  others,  each  attaining  a 
greater  degree  of  appreciation,  until  to-day  the  art  of  the 
player  encompasses  the  highest  attributes  of  the  allied  arts. 

The  player  is  one  who  loves,  and  understands,  nature. 
To  do  so  he  must  feel,  in  the  highest  sense,  the  emotions  of 
the  artist,  the  poet  and  kindred  spirits,  because  from  each 
he  must  cull  the  choicest  petals — the  inspiration  of  the  poet, 
that  he  may  portray  the  character;  the  genius  of  the  artist, 
that  he  may  imbue  it  with  life,  and  the  passion  of  the  bard, 
and  to  this  the  sympathy  of  a  Madonna,  the  tenderness  of 
an  angel,  the  love  of  a  mother  and  the  strength  of  a  giant. 

The  development  of  the  art  of  the  player  records  the 
development  of  civilization  itself.  The  player  and  his  art 
obtains  wherever  there  is  civilization.  In  its  highest  form  it 
is  at  once  Literature,  Art  and  Music  in  harmonious  arrange- 
ment. In  its  possibilities  it  is  Religion,  teaching  the  whole 
world  by  its  power: 

"I've  heard  that  guilty  creatures  at  a  play. 
Have,  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene. 
Been  struck  so  to  the  soul,  that  presently 
They  have  proclaimed  their  malefactions." 

The  player,  supreme  in  his  art,  is  master  of  every  emotion. 


r 


Drawn  by  Nell  Brinkley. 
"Little  Betty's." 


Venetian       iw^ilight 


by  Carter  S.  Cole. 

Illiistiation    hy    Thomas   Foyarty. 


Y  gondolier  lazily  makes  his  way, 

Threading  along,  humming  a  song, 
While  glorious  tints  of  a  dying  day 
Fill    me   with    rapture;    and    earth, 
sky,  and  sea. 
In  their  aureole  robes,   are  a  mystery 
Hidden  from  none,  priceless,  but   free ! 


The  swish  of  the  oar  in  the  dark,  quiet   stream, 
Rhythmical,  clear,  soothing  to  hear. 

Scatters  the  mist  as  a  little  moonbeam 
Kisses  the  lips  that  are  mine  by   right. 
And  caresses  the  form  with  its  mellow  light 
For  which  I  am  yearning  to-night. 


This  world  is   a  place  full  of  trouble  and  pain. 

None  of  us  know,  why  this  is  so  ; 
In  fancy,  at  least,  when  you  suffer  again, 

Ride  in  my  gondola,  dismiss  all  care. 

Hear  the  soft  music  that  floats  through  the   air. 

At  twilight,  in  Venice,  so   fair. 


'My  gondolier  lazily  makes  his  ivay, 
Threading  along,  Jiuinniing  a  song.' 


Best    Bets    of    a    13achelo 

by  Dixie  Hines. 

llliiKlnitioiis   1)1/   Cltarlcs  Roy  Uoiccrs  and  A.  J.  Bjunmluil. 


EAUTY  is  only  paint-deep  at  times. 

Only  the  brave  can  handle  the  fair. 

A  pretty  girl  envies  but  one  girl — a 
prettier   one. 

Many  a  poor  husband  is  created  from 
a  rich  man. 

While  there  is  an  engagement  there's  hope — of   liberty. 

Men  can  persuade  a  woman  to  do  anything  she  wants  to. 

Men  can  be  classified ;    women  cannot  even  be  pacified. 

A  woman's  idea  of  happiness  is  to  be  ideally  miserable. 

A  woman  will  break  a  heart  as  readily  as  she  will  crack 
a  smile. 

No  married  man  ever  was  a  fool  without  being  told  of 
the  fact. 

The  grass  widow  is  not  alone  in  making  hay  while  the 
sun  shines. 

A  bachelor  is  a  man  who  has  given  serious  thought  to 
matrimony. 

Bachelors  form  their  opinion  of  marriage  by  experience 
— of  others. 

There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun  except  hat  styles 
for  women. 


^°"7/:f 


"A   zvoman   iinaf^iiics   she   can   cozier  up   her   ivipcrfcctioiis 
by  pointing  out  those  of  other  zvonien." 


Cesl  Bets  of  a  Bachelor 


Every   girl  would   love   to  be  a  thing  of  beauty   and    a 
boy   forever. 

When   a  woman  proves  equal  to  all  a  man  expects  she 
is  a  sur-prize. 

It  isn't  nearly  so   hard  to  be   a   fool  over   a  widow   as 
not  to  be  one. 

Every  woman  secretly  admires  the  wisdom  of   the  man 
who  flatters  her. 

A  woman  may  conceal  her  faults,  but  a  decollete  gown 
is   less  deceptive. 

The  blush   of   a   bashful   girl   is   a   flush   that   takes   any 
hand — and   heart. 

"The  cup  of  happiness"  with  men  of  experience  has  a 
siphon  on  the  side. 

Every  woman  has  a  horror  of  old  age,  but  not  so  much 
as  of  young  death. 

Women  are  never  satisfied.     First  they  want  a  voter  and 
then  they  want  a  vote. 

Some    men    are    born    to    trouble,    while    others    merely 
achieve  it  by  marriage. 

There  is  but  one  kind  of  love,  yet  every  woman  has  a 
different  idea  about   it. 

Men,  manners  and  morals  change,  but  woman,  never — 
from  the  changeable. 


A  man  may  he  "out  front"  at  the  opera  and  yet  be  able 
only  to  "see  back" — //  he  is  unth  her. 


Best  Bets  of  a  Bachelor 


Every  woman  expects  a  man  to  think  for  her,  and  then 
she  reverses  his  opinion. 

When   it   comes  to  singing   the  praises   of   another,   most 
women  have   a  sore  throat. 

Man's    principal    safeguard    against    matrimony    is    that 
widows   are  made,  not  born. 

Many  a  promising  housekeeping  career  has  been  ruined 
in  an  unpromising  stage  career. 

Men  have   found  many  antidotes  for  a  woman,   but  the 
surest  of  all   is  another  woman. 

A   woman   spends   one-half   of   her   time   telling   lies    for 
men  and  the  other  half  to  them. 

Women  often   know  a  man   is  in   love  with   them  when 
the  man  riever  discovers  the  fact. 

Men  often  find  it  necessary  to  choose  between  the  incon- 
stant and  the  unattractive  woman. 

A  woman   keeps  a  man  running  all  the  time — first  it  is 
after  her  and  then  it  is  from  her. 

If  women  did  not  know  that  men  could  overcome  their 
resistance  they  would  seldom  resist. 

There  are  two  ways  in  which  a  woman  may  win  a  man: 
Her  own  brilliancy  and  his  inanity. 

When  a  man  is  at  the  feet  of  woman  it  is  pretty  sure 
that  another  woman  threw  him  there. 

Every   woman   wants   a  man   to  be   real   devilish   before 
marriage   and   real   angelic   afterwards. 


Best  Bets  of  a  Bachelor 


Anyhow,  there  was  one  woman  who  was  never  jealous. 
Adam  didn't  have  troubles  about  that. 

A  woman   imagines  she  can  cover  up  her  imperfections 
by  pointing  out   those   of  other  women. 

Some    men    are    born    wise,    some    achieve    wisdom    by 
experience,   and  some  just   don't  marry. 

Two  kinds  of  women  make  trouble  in  the  world — those 
that  are  married  and  those  that  are  not. 

There  is  but  one  class  of  women  who  are  not  interested 
in  the  fashions  and  they  are  the  dead  ones. 

The   philosopher   said   a   woman    could   not    argue — he 
was  too  wise  to  say  that  she  could  not  talk. 

The  reason  so   many   men   find   marriage   unattractive   is 
because  life  was  so  attractive  before  marriage. 

It  isn't  a  hard  matter  for  a  woman  to  make  a  man  love 
her.     The  difficulty  is  in  making  him  keep  it  up. 

A  woman  can  make  up  two  things  at  the  same  time — 
her  face  and  her  mind;    but  her  face  lasts  longer. 

The  world  has  no  sympathy  to  waste  on  those  reckless 
enough  to  wed  when  both  have  been  married  before. 

If  a  man  does  not  tell  a  woman  he  loves  her  she  thinks 
him  impossible;  if  he  does,  he  knows  himself  foolish. 

When   a   woman   says   that   all   she   wants    is   what   she 
deserves  she  really  means  she  deserves  all  she  wants. 


Best  Bets  of  a  Bachelor 


When  a  girl  reaches  that  uncertain  age  and  is  yet 
unmarried,   she  is  often  worse  than  she  paints  herself. 

Sometimes  there  is  more  truth  than  sentiment  when  a  man 
tells  a  woman  a  thing  is  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  her  face. 

No  one  has  ever  yet  discovered  why  a  woman  is  afraid 
of  a  mouse  and  tackles  a  six-foot  man  with  confidence. 

A  woman  will  start  a  flirtation  in  fun  and  then  won- 
der why  a  man  won't  follow  her  when  she  gets  serious. 

If  a  man  wants  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  he  can  find 
many  opportunities,  but  the  surest  way  is  over  a  woman. 

Men  and  women  both  agree  that  it  is  inadvisable  to  live 
without  each  other  and  impossible  to  live  with  each  other. 

Whether  a  married  man  pities  or  envies  his  bachelor 
friends  depends  entirely  upon  how  long  he  has  been  mar- 
ried. 

If  a  man  really  wants  to  start  something  with  himself, 
let  him  try  to  love  a  woman  just  as  a  woman  wants  to  be 
loved. 

The  best  way  to  find  out  what  a  girl  who  is  in  love  with 
a  man  thinks  of  woman  suffrage  is  to  find  out  what  he 
thinks. 

A  man  may  escape  the  measles,  or  automobiles,  or  even 
being  indicted,  but  no  man  has  ever  been  known  to  escape 
a  widow. 

No    woman    ever    told    a    man    she    hated    him    without 


Best  Bets  of  a  Bachelor 


meaning  it;    some  women  have  told  men  they  loved  them 
and  meant  it. 

Rather  than  a  man  should  be  right  and  belong  to 
another  woman,  a  woman  would  have  him  wrong  and 
belong  to  her. 

The  reason  widows  are  so  attractive  to  men  is  because 
they  will  allow  themselves  to  be  taught  things  they  already 
know  too  well. 

A  girl  will  gaze  for  three  hours  and  a  half  at  the  moon 
and  then  wonder  why  she  hasn't  time  to  sew  a  button  on 
her  brother's  vest. 

The  happiest  man  is  he  who  will  take  a  woman's  pro- 
testations like  he  does  a  dose  of  medicine — with  celestial 
faith  in  the  giver. 

When  a  woman  fails  to  see  an  opportunity  to  be  gen- 
erous to  another  woman  it  is  not  necessarily  a  sign  of 
defective  eye-sight. 

Don't  misunderstand  a  man  when  he  tells  a  woman  she 
is  sweet  enough  to  eat — maybe  he  is  thinking  of  the  forth- 
coming  restaurant-check. 

Between  the  ages  of  sixteen  and  thirty  a  woman  is  a 
general  practitioner  in  the  field  of  love;  after  that  she  is 
satisfied  to  become  a  specialist. 

A  man  is  willing  to  worship  at  the  shrine  of  a  woman 
with  whom  he  is  in  love  until  he  meets  another  woman 
— then  he  changes  his  religion. 


Best  Bets  of  a  Bachelor 


The  question  will  never  be  settled  between  women  as  to 
which  will  win  a  man  quicker,  a  pair  of  silk  stockings  or 
an  ability  to  bake  a  good  cake. 

If  ever  the  fact  that  there  are  no  marriages  in  Heaven 
is  generally  believed  by  women,  half  of  the  preachers  will 
be  obliged  to  seek  other  employment. 

If  a  woman  were  obliged  to  express  a  preference,  she 
would  choose  the  man  who  pleases  but  does  not  love,  to 
the  man  who  loves  but  does  not  please,  her. 

Women  are  said  to  be  more  "clean-minded"  than  men. 
Men  might  meet  feminine  competition  if  they  resorted  to 
the  stratagem  of  changing  their  minds  as  often. 

The  greatest  disappointment  after  marriage  comes  to  a 
man  when  he  realizes  that  his  wife  does  not  look  like  the 
models  in  the  shop  windows  during  a  white-goods  sale. 

A  man  can  protect  himself  from  the  things  said  about 
him  by  the  women  who  don't  love  him.  It's  the  things 
said  about  him  by  the  woman  who  does  love  him  that 
keep  him  worried. 

Women,  says  a  sage,  are  like  books:  No  man  can  judge 
the  inside  by  what  is  displayed  on  the  outside.  It  is  a 
poor  rule  that  wxjn't  work  both  ways.  Women  are  unlike 
books:  When  one  has  finished  with  a  book  it  can  be 
closed  up. 


Draivn  by  E.  M.  Ashe. 


X  n  e      M  issing      Rhyme 


by  Henry  Tyrrell. 

Illudinil ion   hij  E.    1  .    .\  lullin  iii/. 


HE  trouble  was,  no  word  would  rhyme  with 

month. 
And    that    was    why    my    lovely    birthday 

sonnet. 
Meeting  this  obstacle,  was  wrecked  upon  it. 


^~^^  I 


"Oh,    fairest   day   of   springtime's   fairest    month"— 
Thus  I  began,  and  there  I  stuck  at  "month." 

Her  birthday  is  the  first  of   May. 

"Dog-gone  it!" 
I  cried,   "I  can't  go  on,  now  I've  begun  it — 
Unless,  perchance,  I  write  of  May  the  one-th." 

Then  went  I   to  my  lady  love,   with   all 

The  story  of  my  tenderness  and  trouble — 
Explained   how   words   in   Poetry   must  double, 
And   how  my   sonnet's   sweetness   turned   to   gall 
Because  I  couldn't  find  a  rhyme  for  "month." 


She  laughed,  and  lithped  the  answer — "You're  a  dunth!" 


"She  laughed  and  lithpcd  the  ansiver —  'You're  a  dunth!'- 


T 


O 


His        -Heart 

by  Richard  Le  Gallienne. 


O  many  times  the  heart  can  break, 
So  many  ways — 
Yet  beat  along  and  beat  along, 
So   many  days. 

A  fluttering  thing  we  never  see, 

And  only  hear 
When  some  stern  doctor  to  our  side 

Presses  his  ear. 

Strange  hidden  thing  that  beats  and  beats, 

We  know  not  why, 
And  makes  us  live,  though  we,  indeed. 

Would  rather  die. 

Mysterious,  fighting,  loving  thing — 

So  sad,  so  true ! 
I  would  my  laughing  eyes  some  day 

Might  look  on  you. 


K     i    1     1     i 

by  Wm.  B.  Green. 

Illtislnitiun   hy  Ilarnj  C.  Eduanls. 


n      g 


A  shot  rings  out  in  the  for- 
est's side; 
Its  signal  of  death  strikes 
the     Moose     King's 
heart. 
And  the  Indian  hunter  views 
with  pride 
How  his  skill  as  a  hunts- 
man has  won  its  part. 
,     But  the  Shadow  that  falls 
on  the  ground  below 
j  Foretells  the  time 

\jr  when   he,    too, 

shall   go. 


^*|4^*^5 


N 


a  m  1  n  g 


tk 


Bat 


y 


by  John  Harrison. 

Itlusirutioit   liy  KiiKjulon  Jlcmjlcr. 


Y   hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years. 

Nor  grew  it  white  in  a  single  night. 
As  men's  have  grown,  from  sudden  fears — 
But   gray   all  the  same. 
Just    over    a   name — 
A  name  for   the  baby; 
Which   I   wish   to   remark. 

And  my  language  is   plain — 

Or  may  be 
Ornate — if   I   try   to   explain 
The  trouble,  anxiety, 
Crass  contrariety. 
Strain   on   one's   piety — 
He   wouldn't   be   quiet — he 
Cooed   to   satiety — 

(Cute   little  one)  — 
Yes — it  was  pitiful. 
In  a  whole  city-full 
Name   he  had  none. 


^}., 


"^%# 


>1 


(Oi- 


^ 


"Now  let  there  be  a  merry  time  throughotit  all  Christendom, 
For  the  mother  set  her  foot  down — and  the  boy's  named 

'T  o  m:  " 


NaiuinQ  the  Dahv 


Cousins  to  right  of  us. 
Uncles   to  left  of  us, 
Gran'ma  in   front  of  us. 

Mentioned   a    hundred; 
Neighbors,    and    friends   as   well. 
Aided  the   din  to  swell, 

Talked,   until   out   of  breath. 
And,   when   the   dinner-bell 

Rang,   they    all  wondered. 

A   simple   child, 

That   cries   and   holds    its   breath. 
And   kicks  with  either  nether   limb — 

"What   shall   we   call   him?      S' death! 
Wait  till  he's  seven. 

Now  glory  to  that  wife  of  mine,  from  whom  all  glories  are: 
Add   "Hallelujahs"    freely,   for   I'm  not   particular; 
Now  let  there  be  a  merry  time  throughout  all  Christendom, 
For  the  mother  set  her  foot  down — and  the  boy's  named 

Tom. 


^^- 


*■  ^^: 


"^-^^^*^v 


Drawn  by  R.  F.  Zogbaiim. 


Tke   Rackelty-Snackelty- 
G      agelty-'Guz 


by  Anthony  H.  Euwer. 

Itluxtntliini    hji   ihf   Aidhnr. 


HE  awfullest  thing  that  ever  yet  wuz 

Is    the   Rackelty-snackelty-gagelty-guz, 

That     don't     eat    nothin'     but     httle 
boys — 

A  crunchin'  their  bones  with  the  terriblest  noise. 

If  ever  I  see  him  floppin'    around 

I'll  dig  a  big  hole  down  into  the  ground 

And  crawl  away  in  till  he  loses  the  scent, 

Not  even  breathin'  until  he  has  went. 

I  guess  that'll  fool  Mr.  Guz  all  right — 

But  I  hope  he  don't    come  when  it's  late  at  night! 


"The  azvfullcst  thing  that  ever  yet  wu^ 
Is  the  Rackelty-snackelty-yagelty-gnz." 


Paul,    the    Piano-  M  over; 


OR, 


GRAND,    SQUARE    AND    UPRIGHT! 

A  Tale  or  an  Artistic  Temperament 

by  Roy  L.  McCardell. 

/  lliisl  I  III  inns    Ijji    II.    Ml  tlift  Kscl. 


CHAPTER   I. 

MUSIC    AND    MYSTERY. 

APA  can  stand  no  more !  How,  then,  can 
I  break  this  to  him?"  The  speaker,  a 
radiantly  beautiful  young  girl,  stood  sob- 
bing in  the  great  musical  emporium  of 
Harry   M.    Daly  &   Co. 

"Consider   me   a  policeman    and   not   a 
As  he  said  these  words,  Paul  Postelwaite 


piano-mover. 

came  forward  with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  For  all  he  knew 
the  damsel  in  distress  might  be  a  carriage  customer,  and, 
besides,  he  was  afraid  if  he  left  his  hat  in  the  shipping 
department  a  member  of  the  firm  might  steal  it. 

"Oh,  sir,"  replied  the  beautiful  young  girl,  "I  saw  a 
pianola  advertisement  some  time  ago  which  said:  'With 
this  instrument  an\;one  can  play  the  piano.'  And  I,  taking 
all  my  little  savings,  bought  one  for  papa!" 

"Yes?" 

"It  arrived  to-day.  Too  late,  I  perceive  that  a  pianola 
is  an  instrument  from  which  music  can  only  be  extorted 
by  the  feet,  and  poor  papa  was  run  over  by  an  electric  car 
and  lost  both  legs. 


'As  he  said  these  words,  Paul  Postehvaite  came  forward." 


Paul,    the   Piano-Mover 


"It  was  all  my  little  savings,  as  I  have  said.  The  firm 
will  not  take  the  pianola  back,  and  my  poor  papa  has  no 
visible  means  of  support." 

"But  you  can  sue  the  street  railway  company  for  dam- 
ages,"   said   Paul,   soothingly. 

"We  threatened  to  do  that,  but  the  railroad  company 
only  said  papa  should  consider  he  was  sufficiently  dam- 
aged and  they  did  not  see  why  he  should  sue  for  any  more. 
However,  they  said  we  might  bring  the  matter  into  court 
and  they  would  see  what  they  could  do  to  his  character." 

"Go  home,  little  one,"  said  Paul  Postelwaite,  kindly, 
"and  I  will  come  around  this  evening  and  play  the 
pianola    for   your   papa    myself." 

The  foregoing  will  show  that  although  Paul  moved  in 
musical  circles  he  was  neither  a  sharp  nor  a  flat.  His 
worst  predilection  was  that  he  continually  talked  shop,  for 
his  last  words  to  his  distressed  young  confidant  were, 
"Compose   yourself!" 

Paul  Postelwaite  had  long  resolved  upon  a  musical 
career.  He  knew  the  pitfalls  of  the  profession.  On  every 
side  of  him  he  saw  and  heard  the  unfortunates  who  played 
the  piano  to  excess.  A  hater  of  discord,  he  resolved  to 
save  the  victims  of  piano-playing  from  themselves.  To 
this  end  he  studied  piano-moving. 

Most  pianos  are  bought  on  the  instalment  plan.  Most 
payers  for  pianos  bought  on  this  plan  fall  behind  in  their 
instalments.  It  was  Paul's  duty  to  call  and  take  away 
the  pianos  of  those  who  had  been  remiss. 


Paul,   the   Piano-Mover 


He  bore  abuse  and  vituperation,  not  with  stolid  indif- 
ference but  with  the  conscientious  feehng  that  he  was  a 
pubhc   benefactor. 

He  had  the  reward  of  pubhc  appreciation.  People 
afflicted  by  proximity  to  those  who  played  the  piano  to 
excess  no  longer  complained  to  the  Board  of  Health.  They 
ascertamed  if  any  payments  were  overdue  on  the  instru- 
ment of  torture,   and  then   they  sent   for  Paul. 

Paul's  father  had  been  a  piano-maker.  But  he  had 
been  overtaken  by  misfortune.  He  made  pianos  for  the 
big  department  stores. 

But  while  he  only  made  one  grade  of  piano,  he  was 
compelled  by  the  exigencies  of  his  trade  to  stencil  them 
with  so  many  different  names  that  he  forgot  his  own.  And 
one  day,  while  suffering  from  loss  of  memory  m  this 
regard,  he  signed  a  name  not  his  own  to  a  check  and  was 
compelled  to  retire  from  business  to  Ossining-on-Hudson. 

His  father's  parting  advice  had  been,  "Never  forget 
who  you  are,  my  boy!" 


CHAPTER   II. 

HARMONY    IN    A    FLAT. 

That  evening,  carrying  with  him  a  pair  of  wooden  legs, 
as  a  pleasant  surprise  for  the  abbreviated  parent,  Paul 
called  at  the  cosy  Harlem  apartment  where  dwelt  the 
young  girl  who  had  so  attracted  his  attention  that  morning. 

As  the  young  girl  opened  the  door  for  him  with  a  glad 


Paul,    the   Piano-Mover 


cry,  Paul  proffered  the  wooden  legs.  "These  are  for  your 
father,"  he  said;  "he  has  a  heart  of  oak,  I  know,  and  now 
he  will  have  legs  to  match." 

"Bless  you,  young  sir,"  cried  the  father  of  the  girl. 
"This  will  place  me  on  a  better  footing  with  the  world! 
And  should  I  die  they  will  be  a  legacy  for  both  of  you. 
And  now,  thank  gracious!     I  can  play  the  pianola!" 


"The  grateful  father  adjusted  the    artificial  limbs  and  zvas 
soon  playing  Handel  zvitli  Itis  feet." 


Paul,  the  Piano-Mover 


So  saying  the  grateful  father  adjusted  the  artificial  limbs 

and  was  soon  playing  Handel  with  his  feet,  extracting  from 

the  music   chords   of  wood,   as  it  were,   of   a   timbre   most 

surprising. 

;^  :ii  *  *  V  * 

This  was  not  all.  Paul  secured  the  old  man  a  political 
position  as  a  stump  speaker,  at  which  he  was  doubly  suc- 
cessful, and  how  he  stood  on  public  questions  is  well  known ; 
his  physical  disability,  of  course,  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
ever  runnmg  for  office. 

As  for  the  daughter,  Paul  married  her.  There  is  no 
need  to  tell  you  her  name.  She  is  Mrs.  Postelwaite  now 
and  that  is  enough. 

They  are  still  a  musical  family,  and  the  pride  of  their 
home  is  a  Baby  Grand. 


A       TOAST 

by  John  R.  Gregg. 
For  Success — initiative,   concentration   and  perseverance; 
For  Happiness — love,  cheerfulness  and  a  sense  of  humor; 
For   Good-fellowship — the    Pleiades. 


Lady         Crinoline 

by  John  Campbell  Delano. 

Illustration   by  Frank  A.  Nankivcll. 

AINTY    Lady   Crinoline, 

Frail   as   the    frailest   porcelain. 
Memory   doth   take   me  back 
O'er   Life's    long-forgotten   track 

Sweet   as   sweetest   metheglin. 

Dainty  Lady   Crinoline. 

Dark   thine   hair   as   deepest   night. 
And   thine   eyes  were   stars   alight, 
Roses  blushed  thy  cheeks  to  see. 
Blessings  on  thee.   Memory, 
For  this  maid  in   bombazine. 
Dainty  Lady   Crinoline. 

Ankles  slim  as  lily's  stem. 
Tiny   feet   from   out   the  hem 
Of  thy  dress   my  heart  entranced 
When   the   minuet  we  danced. 
Sweet,  angelic  cherubin. 
Dainty   Lady   Crinoline! 


"Dainty  Lady  Criuuliiic, 
Frail  as  frailest  porcelain; 
Ankles  slim  as  lily's  stem." 


At       tke       Pleiades 
by  Maurice  V.  Samuels. 


HE   music   sounds,   my   pulse   responds; 

My   neighbor  who   is  young  and   fair 
Holds   me   in   conversation's   bonds — 
And  yet  my  spirit   is  not  there! 


Around   me   merry   friends   I   see, 
Gay  laughter   and  saluting  smile. 

Here  in  the  Hall  of  Jollity 
Present,   I  still   am  in  exile. 

Bohemia's  spell  is  subtly  wove; 

What  she  seems  to  display   most   clear 
Is  not  her  real   treasure-trove — 

She  whispers  to  an  inner  ear. 

She  pictures  what  remains  unseen. 
Sings  songs  too  exquisite  for   tongue. 

Tempts  one  with  hope  for  nobler  gains 
And  ever  shows  one  higher  rung! 

Bohemia,    ah!     how   base-maligned! 

Thy   form  mistaken  oft   for  Thee! 
Thy  body   gazed  upon.   Thy   Mind 

Regarded  as  an   absentee! 


At  the  Pleiades 


Thou  who  dost  hand  the  cup  of  wine 

To  stir  the  heart  till  it  let  free 
The  prisoned  spirit — form  divine — 

Art  wronged  by  many   a   devotee! 

The  music  sweet,   and  she  whose   face 
Is  soft   illumed,   and  echoed   laugh. 

As  gayety  grows  on   apace. 

Fill  not  the  goblet  that  I  quaff. 

Somewhere,   away,   by   Thee   led  on. 

Aware,    alive,    responsive   still, 
I   feel  the  tremulous  light  shed  on 

My  spirit  by  that  wanton  will. 

We  all,  earth-bound  most  time,  behold 
Thy  shrine  and  there  libation  pour; 

Mistake  the  alloy  for  pure  gold 
And  mere   appearance,    to   adore. 

For  know,   Bohemia,    Goddess  glad. 
We   all  in  some  way  comprehend 

Thy  worship  must  be  gay,  not  sad. 
Or  Thou  refuses!  to  befriend. 

So  here,  with  revelry  and  mirth. 

Gay  song,   quick  toast  and  wassail  mood, 
We  greet  Thee  in  Thy  form  of  Earth 

And  place  before  Thee  wi 


:^c^ 


Tlie     Land     of     Dreams 

by   Willard   D.    Coxey. 

Illustration  by  Ryan  Walker. 


H,  a  curious  place  is  the  Land  of  Dreams. 
With  its  vapory  castles  of  smoke — 
A  shadowy  land  where  the  sun  never  beams. 
And  Reality's  only  a  joke! 


'Tis  a  place  where  fortunes  are  made  in  a  night 

With  nothing  of  cost  or  labor; 
And  all  that  you  do  is  to  turn  out  the  light — 

And  dream  that  Wealth  is  your  neighbor! 

'Tis  a  land  of  bliss,  where  no  one  is  missed — 

'Tis   a   land   that   lovers   adore. 
Where   the  prettiest   girl  who  ever  was   kissed 

Is  a  dream  on  the  edge  of  a  snore! 


So  here's  to  the  shadowy   Realm  of  Sleep! 

And  here's  to  the  People  of  Seeming! 
The  rest  of  the  world  may  awake  and  weep, 

But  me  for  the  laugh  and  the  dreaming. 


'Where  the  prettiest  girl  who  ever  was  kissed 
Is  a  dream  on  the  edge  of  a  snore." 


Tke  Wedding    of    tke     v  mes 

by  Aimee  Greene- Abbott. 


CURIOUS  vine  leaned  over  the  w^all, 
Gay  with  pride,  and  straight  and  tall. 
It  danced  and  swung   in   the   playful 
wind, 
And  peered  about  to  see  what  it  could  find. 

Its  tendrils,  light  and  airy  and   gay. 
Flaunted  and  fluttered,  day  after  day, 
Till  a  larger   vine  on  the  side  of  a  church, 
Swung  out  a  branch,  with  decisive  lurch. 

He  grasped  the  tendril  with  loving  force, 
(She  thought  she  couldn't  resist,  of   course.) 
They  twined  together,  heart  to  heart, 
Now  none  who  pass  can  tell  them  apart. 


Drawn  by  A.  I.  Keller. 


1  he  Fable  of  tne  Over-Talented 


by  Dorothy  Dix. 

Illustration  by  Wui.  J.  Stcinujans. 


HERE  was  once  a  Sagacious  Youth,  with 
a  High  Brow,  who  Opined  that  the 
World   owed   him   a   Living, 

"It  is  all  very  well,"  he  reflected,  "for 
Ordinary  Dubs  who  have  not  been  blessed 
with  a  Superabundance  of  Gray  Matter  as  I  have,  to 
Strain  on  the  Collar  in  the  Tread  Mill  of  Business,  but 
the  very  thought  of  Work  makes  me  Tired,  and  I  appre- 
hend that  there  are  Easier  ways  of  getting  the  Pelf  than 
by   Earning  it. 

"It  is,  of  course,  a  Good  Thing  that  not  every  one  is 
as  Brilliant  as  I  am,  for  if  they  were  the  world  would 
blow  up  with  Spontaneous  Combustion.  It  really  pains 
me  to  see  others  toiling  along  day  after  day  for  Measly 
Salaries,  when  they  might  have  money  coming  to  them 
on  Wings  if  they  only  used  their  Wits  instead  of  their 
Paws." 

With  that  the  Sagacious  Youth  worked  out  a  system 
that  was  a  Sure  Thing  on  paper  for  Divorcing  the  Public 
from  its  Long  Green. 

"I  learned  from  the  Census  Report,"  he  said  to  him- 
self,  "that  every   Mmute   a  Sucker   is   Born,   and   I   appre- 


"There  zcas  once  a  Sagacious  Yotith  with  a  High  Broiv.' 


The  Fable  of  the  Over-Talented 


hend  that  they  are  Providentially  provided  to  furnish  Au- 
tomobiles and  Wealth  Water  for  Wise  Guys  like  Me, 
and  that  all  that  I  shall  have  to  do  is  to  take  advantage 
of  their  Gullibility  in  order  to  Hook  Them  and  have  a 
Fish  Chowder  that  will  be  a   Perpetual  Picnic. 

"I  have  perceived  that  most  of  my  Fellow  Creatures 
are  so  Greedy  that  they  will  swallow  any  sort  of  Bait  if 
it  looks  Fat,  and  that  if  you  only  Promise  them  enough, 
it  Razzle-dazzles  them  so  they  do  not  investigate  your 
means  of  Making  Good." 

Thereupon  the  Youth  began  burning  the  midnight  Car- 
bon concocting  a  Prospectus  of  Speculation  made  Easy, 
by  which  Widows  and  Orphans  and  Clergymen  could  be 
separated  from  their  Pile  and  enjoy  all  the  Excitement  and 
Losses  of  Wall  Street  at  Home. 

As  an  idea  it  was  a  Jim  Dandy  that  commanded  the 
respect  of  the  Financial  World,  but  before  the  Youth  could 
realize  it  the  Post-Office  Department  got  Wise,  and  he 
felt  it  best  to  Travel  in  Europe  for  his  Health. 

"Alas!"  cried  the  Youth,  "I  fear  that  the  Confidence 
Game  is  getting  Over-Crowded,  and  it  is  evidently  up  to 
me  to  either  Marry  and  give  some  Female  the  Pleasure  of 
Supporting  me,   or  else  go  to   Work. 

"Personally,  my  tastes  are  not  Domestic,  and  I  prefer 
Single  Blessedness  to  Double  Wretchedness,  but  it  is  clear 


The  Fable  of  the  Over-Talented 


that  It  will  be  less  Fatiguing  to  hold  a  Lady's  Hand  than 
to  call  Stations  in  the  Subway;  it's  me  for  the  Altar. 
Besides,  as  soon  as  I  have  annexed  little  Tootsey-Wootsey 
for  my  own,  I  will  take  possession  of  her  Bank  Account 
and  then   all  will  be  well." 

So  the  Youth  espoused  an  Elderly  Widow  whose  No.  1 
husband  had  left  her  a  Large  and  Juicy  slice  of  Insurance, 
but  contrary  to  his  expectations  she  was  a  Foxy  Lady  with 
a  Time  Lock  on  her  Pocketbook,  and  he  could  not  work 
the  Combination   that  opened  it. 

At  this  the  Youth  shed  bitter  Tears,  but  when  he  began 
knocking  Fate  his  Friend  called  him  down. 

"It  may  be  True,"  said  the  Friend,  "that  the  World 
owes  you  a  living,  but  there  are  many  Small  Debts  that 
we  have  to  Personally  Collect. 

"If  you  had  displayed  as  much  Imagination  in  writing 
Fiction  as  you  have  in  Telling  Lies  that  deceive  no  one, 
you  would  have  received  an  Honorary  Degree  from  Yale 
instead  of  the  Double  Cross  from  your  Fellow  Creatures, 
and  if  you  had  worked  as  hard  at  some  Honest  Calling 
as  you  have  in  trying  to  Rob  Others  you  would  be  a 
Millionaire  instead  of  a  Tramp.  It  is  my  observation  that 
the  Beater  always  gets  Beaten  in  the  end.     Farewell!" 


Moral:    This  Fable  teaches  that  Most  of  the  Short  Cuts 
to  Success  end  on  the  Dump. 


A 


Son 

by  Philip  Verrill  Mighels. 

Itlusiration  by  I'.  Luis  Mora. 


g 


Somewhere  I  have  heard  that  the  ''Plei- 
ades all  sang  together,''  and  I  therefore 
submit  these  all-star  verses  as  a  song. 


■  I  ^ 


N   the  Northern  seas  I   loved  a  maid 
As  cold   as   a   polar  bear. 
But  of  taking  a  cold  I  was  not  afraid- 
Sing   too   rel   le   roo 
And   the  wine   is   red — 
For  a  kiss  is  a  kiss  most  anywhere. 
When  a  man's  heart  goes  to  his  head. 

Ho!    the  heart  of  a  man  is  an  onion,  boys. 

An  onion,  boys,  with  a  shedding  skin; 
And  never  it  breaks,   for  you  off  with  its  hide 

When  the  old  love's  gone — and  it's   fresh  within! 

In  the  Southern  seas  I   loved   a  lass 

As  warm   as  a  day  in  June, 
And  oh,  that  a  summer  should  ever  pass — 
Sing  too  rel  le  roo 
And  the  wine  is  red — 
For  my  summer,  my  lads,  was  gone  too  soon. 
With  a  man's  heart  gone  to  his  head. 

Ho!     the  heart  of  a  man,  etc. 


"In  the  Southern  seas  I  loved  a  lass 
As  warm  as  a  day  in  June." 


A  Song 

In  the  Western  seas  I  loved  a  miss 
As  shy  as  the  sharks  that  swim. 
And  it's  duties  we  owe  to  the  art  of  a  kiss — 
Sing  too  rel  le  roo 
And  the  wine  is   red — 
If  a  maiden  so  shy  should  be  took  with  a  whim 
And  a  man's  heart  gone  to  his  head. 

Ho!     the  heart  of  a   man,   etc. 

P.  S. — There  are  said  to  be  seven  seas.      It  ought  to  be  seventy. 


WHERE    BOHEMIA    IS 

by  John    William  Sargent. 

Bohemias    not    a    corner    hid    in    Paris     or    New    York, 
Not  a  corner  in  a  cellar  -where  ■we  eat  and  drink  and  talk. 
Nor  a  corner  that  is  set  aside  to  poverty  and  art : 
No,  Bohemias  ]ust  a  corner  in  the  right  man  s  heart ! 


A 


u  t  u  m 

by  Arthur  Stahlschmidt. 

Decoration    hi/  II.  K.   Crunincr. 


n 


HE  long  sweep  of  the  wind  across  the 
moor, 
The   cry   of   plover   bird   on    flapping 
wing, 

The  faded  grass  and  bracken  near  the  shore 
Of  the  deserted  pond  where  robins  used  to  sing. 

No  cricket  voice;  no  cheery  summer  sound, 
Naught   save   the    sweeping  of  the  wind  among  the 
naked  boughs 
And     rustle    of    dead    leaves    along    the    barren 
ground. 


At     tke      Sign 
Cneap        laDle 


of      tke 
d '  Ho  t  e 


by  Helen  Rowland. 

Illustration  by  E.  M.  Ashe. 


MOKE,    and   spaghetti,    and   crimson    wine. 
And  the  laughing  notes  of   a  viohn ! 
From  the  Seine,  from  the  Loire,  from    the 
Thames,    the    Rhine, 

Hail    the    guests    of    the    cheap    table 
d'hote — Come  in! 


What  if  your  hat  be  a  battered  one? 

What  if  your  coat  be   a  trifle   thin? 
There's  a  chant  of  cheer   for   Bohemia's  son 

At  the  Sign   of  the   Cheap  Table  d'Hote — Come  in! 

Feel   not  your  pocket,    for  here's  a    feast. 

And  your  fill  of  wine   for  a   few  mean   pence — - 

Fish  and  fowl  and  a  loaf,   at  least — 
And  all   for  a  matter  of   fifty  cents! 


Oh,    wonderful   things   you'll   discover   there 

In  the  midst  of  the  clatter  and  smoke  and  din. 

For   Genius   is  child   of   the  very   air 

One   breathes   at   the   cheap   table   d'hote — Come   in! 


"Oh,  wonderful  things  you'll  discover  there 
In  the  midst  of  the  clatter  and  smoke  and 


din." 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Cheap   Table  d'Hote 

Out   of  the   smoke   there   are   statues  carved. 
And   daring   dreamers   their  day-dreams   spin; 

For  never  a  poet's  soul  has  starved 
On  the  notes  of  a   table  d'hote   violin. 

At   that  table  yonder,   perchance,  was  born 
A  sonnet   that  brought   the  singer   fame — 

And  there,    in  a  jacket   frayed   and  worn. 
Nightly,    a    world-known    pamter    came. 

Here,  once   reveled  a  popular  wit. 

There,   a  composer,   now   rich   and   fat. 
Here,    a   diva — just   think   of   that!  — 

Flirted    and    laughed,    'neath    a   home-made   hat! 

Where   are   they   now?     Who   knows?     Alas! 

Dining,   perhaps,    in    a   dinner   coat. 
Sipping  champagne   from   a   rich   man's   glass — 

For  Success  sits  not  at  the  table  d'hote. 

But  what  does   it   matter   to  us,   I   say! 

This  is   "Going-to-be"   and  not  "Has-been" — 
The  Land  of   "To-morrow,"   not   "Yesterday," 

Is   the   Sign   of   the   Cheap  Table   d'Hote — Come    in! 


"Hello 

by  John  Edward  Hazzard. 


ELLO,  girl!" 

"Hello,  boyf 
Thus  with  hand-clasp  was  our  greet- 
ing, 

Seems  as  though  at  our  first  meeting. 
"Hello,  girl!"   and  oh,  what  gladness 
In  her  echo,  "Hello,  boy!" 

"Hello,  girl!" 
"Hello,  boy!" 
This,  and  then  a  moment's  kissing. 
Gave  us  what  in  life  was  missing  ; 
"  Hello,  girl !"  and  oh,  what  madness 
In  her  echo,  "Hello,  boy!" 

"Good-by,  girl!" 
"Good-by,  boy!" 
Thus  we  spoke  it  at  our  parting, 
Just  a  little  tear  was  smarting  ; 

"Good-by,  gid!"  and  oh,  what  sadness 
In  her  echo,  "  Good-by,  boy  !" 


T  K   e        Wild        R  o 

by  John  Jerome  Rooney. 

Jllusli  ulion    by   Louis    Klicud. 


s   e 


SAW  a  wild  rose  in  the  wilderness ; 
It  was  so  sweet,  so  sweet 
It  seemed  the  one  thing  in  the  world 


That  God  had  made  complete. 

It  grew  beside  a  mossy  road 
In  the  deep  northern  woods, 

And  oh,  its  simple  beauty  lit 
Those  savage  solitudes. 


And,  as  I  plucked  it  where  it  blew 
All  tremblmg  in  the  wind. 

It  seemed  a  meet  gift  unto  her — 
The  flower  of  womankind! 


"The  flozver  of  zijo mankind!" 


Tke      Old,     Old     Prayer 

by  John  W.  Postgate. 


w 


^UR   Father,   which    art   in    Heaven, 
We   glorify   Thy   name. 
And  pray  our  sins  be  all   forgiven. 

Our  hearts   all  cleansed   from   shame; 
Our   vain   desires  we  beg  Thee  check, 
Our    footsteps   lead    aright, 
And   from  our  eyes  remove  each  speck 
That  blinds  us  to   the   light. 

Hallowed  be   Thy  name,  O   Lord; 

Let   Thy  sweet  mercy  reign; 
Within   our   hearts   sink   deep   the   Word 

That  heals   all   grief   and  pain; 
Our   wand'ring   thoughts    restrain   and  cheer, 

Our   cares   and   doubts   dispel; 
From   timid  hearts  cast  out  each   fear, 

And   teach  us,   All   is  well! 

Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread; 

And  fervent  be  our  creed. 
To  suffer  none  to  go  unfed 

While   we   may   end  his   need; 
Let  love  and  pity   fill   our  hearts. 

And  charity   for  all; 
Sustain  the  strength  that  hope   imparts. 

To   bless  both   great   and   small. 


The  Old,    Old  Prater 


Thy  Kingdom  come,  in  Thy  good  time. 

Oh,    comfort   us   till   then! 
Tiiy  will   be  done  in   ev'ry  clime 

Where  toil  the  sons  of  men; 
And   let   Thy   grace  descend   and   glow 

Within    each    weary   breast. 
So  we  may  all  Thy  goodness  know. 

Thy   love   and  peace  attest. 

Our  faults   forgive,   as  we   forgive 

The   faults  by  others  shown; 
Teach  us  the  way  to  righdy   live 

Our   follies  to  atone; 
From  evil  aims  our  minds  set   free. 

And   from   temptation   save; 
And  let  the  Cross  of  Calvary 

Redeem  us   from  the  grave. 

For  Thine   the  Kingdom  must  prevail 

'Gainst  all   the  hosts  of  ill. 
Thy  power  and  Thy   glory  quell 

The  arts  that  sting  and  kill; 
And  forever  and   forever 

Hosannas   let  us   raise, 
That  lures  of  earth  may  never 

Divert  us   from  Thy  ways. 


Ihe      j3ashful       Cjirl 

by  Fred  S.  Blossom. 

Jlluxtrutiun    by   E.   Fiilir. 


HE   threw   around   my   soul   a   charm — 
I   threw   around   her  waist  my   arm. 
She  was  so  bashful  and  seemed  so  shy — 
Just  made  to  kiss — ah!     I  wished  to  try. 


We  strolled  along  in  the  cooling  shade; 
I  mustered  courage  and  kissed  the   maid. 
Her  look!     Her  eyes!     I'll  never   forget 
The  touch  of  her  lips!     It  lingers  yet. 

We  kissed  again!      My  heart  stood  still — 
A  joy  came  o'er  me,   a  quiet  thrill; 
As  the  red  blood  pulsed,   all  seemed  awhirl- 
Wondrous  change  in  my  bashful  girl! 


Did  her  brown  eyes  flash,  or  a  cry  of  wrath 
Re-echo  along  that  shady  path? 
Nay!     But  clinging  close,   as   ivies   climb. 
She  lifted  her  head  to  me  each  time. 


"But  clinging  close,  as  ivies  climb. 
She  lifted  her  head  to  me  each  time.' 


I       nvitation 

by  Walter  Gregory  Muirheid. 

JlUistiution   hy  It.   A.   Ijiidcrs. 


RAY,    maiden    of   ye    ancient    time. 
Fair    stranger    of    a    foreign    clime. 
Tell   me,   as   gaze  ye   o'er   the  sea. 
What   thoughts   arise   to   comfort    thee? 

Hast   lover   there   in   ship   of   state. 

Or  waitest  thou  beside   the  gate 

To   welcome    him    from   war's   alarms 

To   the    fond   shelter   of   thine   arms? 


Perchance  that  through  the  ages  vast 
In  prophecy  thy  gaze  is  cast 
And  to   Manhattan's   glad   and   gay 
Hotels,   cafes   and    Great  White  Way 
Thy   fancies  take   their  wing,   and  show 
The   Pleiades   with   lights   aglow, 
Till  in  thy  limpid,  lucent  eyes 
Bright  visions  of  our   feasts   arise. 


"Fair  stranger  of  a  foreign  clime: 


Invilalion 

Canst  bridge  the  span  of  ages  vast, 
O  maiden  of  a   fabled  past? 
Then   come!      We'll  do   our   best   to  please; 
We'll  make  thee  guest  at  Pleiades! 
And  ne'er  in  palmy   days  of  Rome 
Couldst  thou,    fair   maiden,   feel  at  home 
More  than  at  Pleiads'   tables   round 
Where    fellowship   and    faith    abound. 

For  ne'er  in  Rome  were  men  like  these 
Good  fellows  of  the  Pleiades, 
And  ne'er  were   maidens  half  so   fair 
As   they   who   seek   diversion   there; 
Yet  ne'er  was   time   these   fellows   gay 
Would   deem   another   in   the  way. 
And  so  make  haste,   fly  o'er  the  sea. 
The   Pleiades  will   welcome   thee! 


Drawn  by 
Wm.  J.  Steinigans. 


See  the  lady  ?  Does  tlie  lady  want  tKe  soap  ?  TKe  lady  cer- 
tainly does.  Will  the  pup  bring  the  soap  to  the  lady?  It  will 
not — the  pup  is  a  gentleman  pup  and  the  lady  is  a  suffragette. 
The  pup  wants  her  to  get  it  herself. 


All  You  ^^eed  in  ^^ew  York 

by  Lee  Fairchild. 

JIhixtrdiirin   III    Will.    ]'(iit   Henthuysen. 


SHAVE  and  a  dollar, 
A  shine  and  a  collar, 
Is  all  that  you  need  in  New  York; 
That  is,  if  you're  clever 
And  never,  oh,  never 
Are  seen  at  the  thing  we  call  work. 

When  seated  at  dinner 

Just  for  a  beginner 
Change  waiters — a  move  for  a  bluff; 

Talk  "stocks"  of  the  morrow 

And  then  you  may  borrow 
A  crimpled  crisp  sign  of  real  stuff. 

Remember  a  story — 

Quite  new  or  quite  hoary — 
To  quote  to  your  host  when  you  dine; 

Be  never  a  piker 

But  e'er  a  bold  striker — 
Aim  high  or  the  venture  decline. 


..irt  T)fAT«^vfVe>  • 


'Talk  'stocks'  of   the   morroiu. 


Vsl 


1        t        1        n 

by  Mabel  Herbert  Urner. 

JUustration    by   Liillur  .V.    ir/((7f. 


g 


OU — you  will  come  over  Wednesday  eve- 
ning?" She  asked  it  hesitatingly,  timidly 
almost. 

"I'm    afraid    I    can't   Wednesday,"    as 
he   picked  up  his  hat   and  cane. 
"Then  Thursday — have  you  an  engagement  for  Thurs- 
day?" 

"Thursday  is  the  dinner  of  the  Civic  Club." 
"Oh,   yes;     of   course  you   must   go   to   that."        There 
was  a  slight  quiver  in  her  voice  now.      "Could — could  you 
come — Friday?" 

"That's  so  far  ahead.  I  don't  like  to  make  an  engage- 
ment so  far  in  advance.  But  I'll  phone  you  some  time 
during  the  week. 

She  smiled  a  wan  little  assent.  With  a  brief  good-by 
he  was  gone.  His  step  down  the  hall — the  click  of  the 
elevator — then  she  ran  to  the  window  and  followed  him 
with  strained  eyes  as  he   swung  down   the  street. 

If  only  he  would  look  up  and  wave  her  a  good-by  as 
he  used   to — but  he  did  not. 

She  threw  herself  on  the  couch,  her  face  in  the  pillows 
— the   ache   in   her   heart    keener    than    any   physical   pain. 


Waiting! 

Was  it  hopeless — the   fight  she  was  making?      Could   she 
never  win  back  the  love  she  had  lost? 

And  she  had  never  known  how  she  had  lost  it — unless 
it  was  because  she  had  grown  to  care  too  much  and  to 
show   it   too  plainly.      Could   it  be   that?      Had   he   cared 


"There  she  sat,  zvith  her  head  bending  lozv,  thinking, 
thinking,  thinking." 


IV  ailing. f 

only  for  the  uncertainty — the  love  of  pursuit?  ■  And  with- 
out that — being  sure  of  his  conquest — his  interest  had  died? 

Ah,  no — no!  passionately  she  denied  that.  The  man 
she  loved  was  bigger,  finer  than  that!  He  could  not  have 
stooped  to  a  merely  cheap  desire  for  conquest.  If  he  had 
ceased  to  love  her,  it  was  some  fault  of  hers,  some  failing, 
some  lack  within  herself  of  which  she  was  unconscious. 

She  had  spent  long  hours  of  torturing  self-analysis  try- 
ing to  find  where  she  had  failed — what  it  was  that  in  the 
beginning  he  might  have  thought  she  possessed — and  then 
found  she  did  not.  So  great  was  her  love  for  him  that 
she  felt  she  could  almost  make  of  herself  what  he  wanted 
— just  by  the  sheer  strength  of  Tvilling  it! 

If  only  she  could  be  with  him  enough!  If  she  could 
but  have  the  chance  to  make  him  care  for  her  again !  He 
used  to  come  almost  every  day — and  now — now,  sometimes 
many  days  would  pass. 

She  knew  it  was  a  mistake  to  ask  him  when  he  was 
coming — to  try  to  name  any  particular  time.  He  seemed 
to  resent  that  now.  If  only  she  could  let  him  go  without 
a  word!  But  the  thought  of  the  long,  silent  absence  that 
might  follow  always  terrified  her.  Once,  for  two  weeks, 
she  had  not  heard  from  him ;  and  the  memory  of  those  two 
weeks'  suffering  always  weakened  her  to  the  point  of  trying 


Waiting! 

to  make  some  definite  engagement  to  escape  the  sickening 
uncertainty  of  the  days  to  come. 

Oh,  she  was  so  helpless — so  pitiably  helpless!  "Wholly 
dependent  on  him  for  her  happiness,  yet  powerless  to  break 
down  this  wall  he  was  placing  between  them! 

She  slowly  arose  and  threw  herself  into  a  chair.  There 
she  sat,  with  her  head  bending  low,  thinking,  thinking,  think- 
ing. 

****** 

Then  gradually  there  stole  over  her  a  sense  of  quiet — 
almost  of  peace.  It  was  partly  the  relaxation  that  comes 
after  any  emotional  strain,  and  partly  because  of  a  faint 
hope,  a  belief  that  sometimes  came  to  her  and  that  com- 
forted her  above  everything  else — the  thought  that  because 
she  gave  of  her  best — because  the  love  she  gave  was  a  great 
and  good  love — some  time  he  could  come  to  know,  to 
understand,  and  to  love  her  again,  if  only  for  her  unfal- 
tering love  of  him! 

If  she  could  but  wait  long  enough — patiently  enough — 
in  the  end  the   love  she  so  wanted  might  be  hers! 


The      Blind     Messenger 


by  Annabel  Lee. 

Illustration   hij    Walter  Mcyncr. 


F    I    could   feel   the   song   of    faith    still 
singing 
In  my  heart,  once  filled  with  melody 
Of  all   you   seemed   when    love    was 
brmgmg 
Me  to   the  shrine  of  your  adolatry. 

Ah !   If  the  years  and  gods  were  but  content 
To  hold  fame's  trophy  from  my   reaching  hand 

And  give  instead,  the  meed  which  heaven  meant 
Should   crown   each   woman's   life   in  every  land. 


If  the  dead  past  would  but  one  hour  deign 
A   lonely   pilgrim  travelling  byways  rough, 

An  hour  when  love  and  peace  would  ever  reign- 
That  hour  indeed  were  happiness  enough. 


■'"^ 


/•, 


# 


V*'^ 


MA 


V^^Sm''S^''Wi^'mi^a^''m^^??K''  l°llg|Rr-if^rY-'Tff?!:t^>»WF»ai^ffiy'?yf -t'-    '-  •  -  ■-'^■■^ 


•  * 


To  hold  fame's  trophy  from  my  reaching  hand. 


The        Pleiades 

by  Hector  McPherson. 


LL   hail!    my   brothers   of  palette  and  pen; 
Of  science  and  buskin,  too; 
You    daughters    of    beauty     and     tuneful 
mien — 
The  joy-ship's   merriest  crew. 


Can  this  be  Bohemia,  realm  of  mirth. 

Where   the   grave   and   gay    unite? 
Where  genius  now  finds  its  nobler  birth 

And   shines   with    a    lustre   bright? 

Men  here  tell  stories,  their  pictures  paint. 

As  they  burn  life's  flick'ring  lamp; 
They  toil  and  they  sweat,  yea,   mayhap  they   faint. 

Yet  with  care  they  refuse  to  camp. 


When  hand  grips  hand  in   friendly  grasp. 
Just  jot  this  down  in  your  book: 

It  is  Nature's  heart  that  you  fondly  clasp. 
Not  an  empty,  outward  look. 


The  Pleiades 


The   flower  of  friendship  sweeter  blooms 
Where  all  hearts  are  good  and  true. 

Each  nobler  art  richer  form  assumes 
And  shines  with  a  fairer  hue. 

Ye  Pleiades  of  the  heavenly  throng, 

Down  here  you  do  bravely  shine. 
May  your  hearts  be  light  and  your  way  be  long. 

Lit  by  genius  most  divine! 

Then  forward  from  conquering  field  to  field, 

Nor  heeding  life's  battle-scars; 
Nor  malice,  nor  envy's  tongue  shall  make  yield 

Who  brothers  are  to  the  stars! 


Table     d'  Hote     Bohemia 

Here's  to  "Table  d'Hote  BoKemia"' 

Where  all  may  dare. 
But  only   the   brave 

Can  stand  the  fare  ! 


over 

by  Howard  S.  Neiman. 


\ 

M 

1 

N  her  leafy,  shady  bowers 

Grew  a  rose  among  the  flowers; 
Queen  was  she  among  the  bloom, 
Dainty  with  her  sweet  perfume. 
And  the  flowers  did  homage  pay, 
Love  by  night  and  love  by  day. 
Daisies  fair  and  tulips  sweet. 

Bashful  violets  at  her  feet, 

Thistles  strong  and  lilies  white 

Told  their  love  by  day  and  night. 

But  she  spurned  their  love  so  true. 

She  had  lover  no  one  knew. 

And  each  morn  when  faintest  light 

Told  the  passing  of  the  night, 

She  would  lift  her  blushing  face 

For  her  lover's  fond  embrace. 

And  when  other  flowers  did  sleep. 

Softly  to  her  he  would  creep. 

In  the  dawning  thus  alone 

He  would  call  her  all  his  own; 

On  her  lips  a  kiss  would  press. 

Leave  them  moist  with  happiness. 

Love  so  tender.  Love  so  true. 

Fairest  Rose  and  Morning  Dew! 


All  my  life-time  would  be  sweet — 
All  my  happiness  complete — 
If  I  were  the  Morning  Dew, 
And  the  Rose,  Sweetheart,  were  you. 


a  m  e 

by  Katherine  Fitzhugh  McAllister. 

Decoration  hy  D.  8. 

HERE    have    been    men    whose    souls 
were  filled 
With    dew    of  knowledge  thrice  dis- 
tilled, 
Who  bored  holes  in  Time's  masonry 
Thru   which  the  stupid  world  could  see ; 
Yet  Envy  with  the  pen  of  rage, 
Wrote  "  Failure  "  on  the  title  page ! 
Fame  stood  aloof,   with  scornful   head. 
And  crowned  them — after  they  were  dead  ! 


Xke    Tale    of    the    Store    Girl 

by  O  Hana  San. 

Illustration  hu  Adrian  Machcfert. 


ES.  ma'am,  to  the  right.      No,   ma'am,  not 
this  store." 
"Say,   Sade,   ain't  those  dames   a   terrible 

bore 

With   their  questions  all   day? 
Perhaps  now  I  can  say 

What  I  want  to  you,  of  me   friend  Johnny  Ray. 
Was   the  party   real  swell?      Well, 
I'm  dying  to  tell 

You  of  the  dandy  fine  floor,  and  just  what  I  wore 

The  price  of  that,  ma'am?    Well,  ain't  she  a  ham 
To  get  off  her  ear  just  because  it's  too  dear? 
As  I  was  just  sayin',  there  was  dancin'  and  playin', 
And  cute  Johnny  Ray,  say!    was  with  me  all  day 


Two  yards  of  that  lace?     (My,  Sade,  what  a  face!) 

Sure,    ma'am,    I'll   attend; 

I  don't  mean  to  offend 

Either  you  or  any  other  old  lady. 

Fresh?      Can  you  beat  that  now,   Sadie? 

She's  gone  to  complain  to  the  floorwalker  chap — 

It's  all  up  with  me,  maybe,  but  I  don't  give  a  rap. 


V  ?* 


"As  I  was  just  sayin'." 


The   Tale  of  the  Store  Girl 


'Cos  Johnny  wants  me  for  his  own  little  pet, 
And  maybe   I   ain't  lookin'   for  marriage  just  yet! 
I  can  beat  it — and  quick — to  a  store  on  Broadway. 
Hear  me  hand  that  to  him. 
With  a  merry  'Good  day?'  " 


And  she  did,   and  what  happened  is  easy  to  write; 
She  married  young  Ray;     that's  her  end,  so  good  night. 

V  V  •••  *r 

Moral. 
And  the  moral  is  simple   for  girls  high   and  low: 
You'll  never  get  left  with  two  strings  to  your  bow. 
A  good  business  one  to  pull  at  your  will. 
Or,  a  true  lover's  knot  may  be  better  still 
In  case  you  get  "fired,"  like  the  girl  in  the  store. 
Who  had  two  strings  to  her  bow 
And  who  knows? — some  more! 


A        TOAST 

Illustration   hy  Kricyhnff. 

I  drink  to  tte  Pipe,  •whicli,  at  eventide. 
Is   dearer  to   tne  than   a  blushing  bride. 
As   its   perfumed   clouds  float   on  the  air, 
Tbey   curl  into   myriad  visions   rare: 
Pictures  of  comrades  of  long  ago 
I   see  in  the  shadows  that  come   and   go ; 
And   the  long-lost  love   of   my   boyhood   seems 
To  be  kissed  into  life  by  my  Pipe-o"-dreams. 


A 


D  o 

by  Eugene  Geary. 

1  llitNtni lion    III/    a.    M hhclsun. 


n 


g 


OUNG   Love    forsook   the   highways. 

All  decked  in  their  robes  of  Spring, 
And,    far    into    silent   by-ways. 
He   fluttered  on   golden  wing. 
Blithe  youths   and   maidens  chased   him, 

"He  is  only  tired,"   they  said. 
To  a  streamlet's  brink   they  chased   him. 
Then  sighed  that  Love  was  dead. 


On,   on   through   the   shining  meadows. 

As  the   rays  of  the  evening  fell. 
He  sped   'mid  the  length'ning  shadows 

Till  he  came  to  a  lonely  dell. 
The   flowers,   with  teardrops   laden, 

Bent  their  heads  as  he  flew  along. 
To  sigh  o'er  the  grave  of  a  maiden — 

His   sigh   was   a   poet's  song. 


"Then  sighed  that  Love  ivas  dead." 


The    Caverns    ox    the    Soul 


by  Charles  Louis  Sicard. 

Illustration  hy  H.  B.  Eddy. 


ITHIN  the  mystic  caverns  of  our  souls 
There   is    a   labyrinth    unexplored; 
Where  dim  aisles,  winding  far  beyond  the 
poles. 
Have   secrets  of   the  ages  stored. 

Unheard  far  in  the  twilight  mists  of  time, 

Are   weirdly   haunting   strains   that   sleep. 
To  be   resounded   through  your  soul  or   mine. 

For  those  we  summon  from  the  deep. 

Oft  times  I  wandered  in  those  ancient  caves. 

Seeking   to  pierce  the   crowded   past; 
Midst   endless   hosts   submerged    'neath   lethal    waves, 
The  all  in  one,  sans  first,  sans  last. 

For  Truth   alone  thus  strangely  did  I  grope. 

Daring,    despairing,    yet    in    vain ; 
Until  one  wondrous  hour,  while  stirred  with  hope. 

My  search   revealed   a  slumb'ring  strain. 

One  blast   of  barb'rous  melody  flung  clear. 

Swept  back  the  veil,  removed  the  ban. 
And   demon-ridden,   and   accursed   with    fear, 

I   stalked,   once   more  primeval  man. 

Ah  me,  this  thing,  cast  from  the  pit  of  night. 

Knew  naught  but  savagery  and   lust; 
I  searched  in  vain   for  truth,   for  love,   for  light. 

Then  bid  him  vanish  back   to  dust. 


"Within    the    mystic    caverns    of    our   souls." 


The   Caverns   of   the   Soul 


Undaunted   through  my   soul   again   I   sped, 
A  strain   unheard,    for   cycles   flown ; 

Adown    the   shadowed   deeps   this    message   fled. 
Come  ye,  who  first,  love's  thrill  hast  known. 

From   distant   ages   dim,    at   last,    I    came. 
With  shining  eyes  of  glim'ring  dawn. 

And  throbbing  heart  aglow,   destined  to   flame. 
In   love,    through   those   as   yet   unborn. 

I  saw  this  self  ancestral  slowly  fade. 

To  voiceless  chambers  of  the  gloom; 
Where  rest  those  throngs,  who  have  so   fully  paid. 

That  Life's   dank  weeds,   might  flowers  bloom. 

'Tis  on  the  scroll,   graved  deep,   that  I   now  pay. 
And   Life   must   quaff   the  poison'd  wine; 

But  Love  and  Hope,  if  star-strewn  on  the  way. 
Can  purify  the   living  vine. 

O  Soul,   the  tallied  years  of  men  count  not. 

For  life  eternal  sweepeth  back; 
As   life   unending   is   predestined    lot. 

And   I  am   I,   from  love,   from   rack! 

This   vibrant   flame,   entombed   in  human   clay. 
Divine   spark    from   the   aeons   blown. 

Through    loins   of   countless    forbears   to   this   day 
Shall  ever  reap  as  all  have  sown. 


Drawn  by  Albert  Sterner. 


Love       s         Flo\ve 


r 


by  Frank  L.  N orris. 

IlliistruUuii   by  M.  Torre  lluod. 


HROUGHOUT  this  life  a  moral  runs, 
And  ye  who  read  may  learn 


That  God  has  placed  in  every  heart 
A  sacred  fire,  to  burn 
And  flash  so  long  as  life  may  last — 

A  priceless  treasure  trove, 
A  garden  fair,  beyond  compare, 

Where  blooms  the  flov^er  called  love. 
A  flower  that's  warmed  by  passion's  flame. 

And  fed  by  pleasure's  dew, 
Its  curling  petals  reaching  out 

Like  beckoning  hands  to  you. 
But  pluck  it!  ere  with  perfume   gone. 

It  hangs  its  drooping  head. 
Nor  passion  stay  from  day  to  day 

Until  that  flower  is  dead. 


"But  pluck  if!  ere  zi'ith  perfume  gone, 
It  hangs  its  drooping  head." 


i  he     Revolt    of     tne        tars 


by  Maud  G.  Pride. 

Illii.sliKtinn    hji    It.    .S.    AiiKiit. 


VERY  long  time  ago,  when  the  Heavens 
were  quite  new  and  the  Earth  was  still  in 
the  Golden  Age,  a  strange  event  occurred 
— quite  unheard  of  even  in  those  early 
times. 

The  Sun,  vigorous  and  lusty,  had  rubbed  his  blinking 
eyes  and  hurried  away  to  the  west.  The  boy-child,  Twi- 
light, his  chubby  hands  still  clutching  after  the  last  red 
rays  left  behind  by  the  Sun,  winked  his  sleepy  eyes,  as, 
protestingly,  he  was  pushed  along  in  his  crimson  cart  by 
Old  Sandman.  Close  behind  came  his  three  sisters,  the 
Evenmg  Shadows,  in  their  long,  trailing,  gray  robes.  A 
hush  fell  upon  the  Heavens.  From  far  below  came  the 
hum  of  the  Crickets  and  the  low  murmur  of  the  Katydids, 
having  their  final  good-night  gossip,  but  in  the  Sky  all  was 
still  until  the  Moonlady  came  softly  creeping  along,  her 
silver  mantle  enfolding  her  slight  form,  her  long  silken  hair 
caught  by  the  Evening  Breeze,  who  followed  close  in  her 
wake.  At  her  appearance  there  arose  from  the  Earth 
songs  of  gladness  and  hymns  of  praise.  Lovers  looked  up 
at  her  enraptured,  poets  sang  of  her,  and  even  the  brute 
creation  sent  Heavenward  their  low  murmur  of  joy  at  her 


'The  Moonlady  stole  softly  across  the  sky." 


The  Revoll  of  the  Stars 


being.  Silently  she  smiled  down  upon  them  all  as  she 
passed  on  her  way. 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  Black  clouds  skurried 
here  and  there  across  the  Heavens,  and  low  mutterings 
were  heard.     The  Stars  had  revolted! 

Venus,  her  cold  beauty  marred  by  a  frown  of  discon- 
tent, was  the  center  of  a  murmuring  group,  to  whom  she 
spoke  in  words  of  passion : 

"Let  us  take  a  firm  stand.  Why  should  we  go  on  shin- 
ing, shining  through  countless  ages?  We  are  not  appre- 
ciated. We  never  receive  any  praise.  There  are  so  many 
of  us  and  our  light  is  so  feeble,  who  cares  whether  we 
shine  or  not?  The  Moon  comes  along  and  takes  away 
our  glory;  let  her  do  all  the  work  then.  Why  should 
we  waste  our  light  trying  to  outshine  the  Moon  and  the 
Sun?  Unless  we  can  be  as  brilliant  as  they  and  receive 
as  much  praise,  let  us  not  shine  at  all." 

Each  Star  blinked  a  sullen  assent,  and  gradually  each 
little  light  flickered  and  went  out.  The  Dog  Star  barked 
and  the  Great  Bears  growled — the  low  mutterings  became 
a  loud  rumble,  and  the  Heavens  for  once  were  dark,  save 
for  a  faint  light  that  still  gleamed  away  off  in  the  north. 
Seeing  the  feeble  light  still  shining,  all  the  Stars  rushed  to 
it,  surrounding  the  feeble  Star  that  persisted  in  shining,  and 
jeered  at  her  folly. 


The  Revolt  of  the  Stars 


"Put  out  your  light,  you  foolish  one.  Do  you  hope  to 
vie  with  the  Sun  or  the  Moon  with  that  feeble  flame  of 
yours?  What  use  can  you  be  in  this  great  space  of  dark- 
ness  ? 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  Star,  faintly,  "but  I  can 
go  on  shining  and  do  my  best,  though  my  light  is  small 
and  goes  but  a  little  way.  I  do  not  envy  the  Moonlady 
her  glory.  Is  it  not  a  great  thing  that  she  can  shine  so 
radiantly  upon  the  Earth  and  make  so  many  happy?  And 
if  there  were  no  Sun,  what  would  the  poor  little  Flowers 
do,  and  the  Birds  and  the  Beasts?  My  little  light  cannot 
do  much  good,  but  I  can  do  my  best  to  keep  it  bright,  and 
if  it  reaches  to  Earth  but  faintly  I  shall  be  grateful.  I 
had  rather  light  one  soul  onward  and  upward  than  to  have 
a  choir  of  Angels  sing  my  praises;  I  had  rather  one 
person  should  be  glad  he  had  seen  my  rays,  than  to  be 
crowned  with  a  crown  of  brilliant  jewels  and  never  have 
made  anyone  glad;  I  had  rather  one  tearful  soul  should 
look  to  me  and  find  comfort  in  my  steady  light  than  to 
have  a  million  people  bow  down  to  me  in  worship  of  my 
beauty;  I  had  rather  one  soul  should  be  truly  sorry  when 
my  light  goes  out  than  that  a  thousand  should  praise  me  for 
my  brilliancy  and  not  know  when  I  ceased  to  shine;  I 
had  rather  a  baby's  face  looked  up  at  me  and  smiled  and 
called  my  name   than  to  be  praised  in   a  pwset's  song   and 


The  Revolt  of  the  Stars 


know  he  was  paid  so  much  a  hne  for  it;  I  had  rather 
send  one  faint  ray  of  hope  into  some  troubled  heart  than 
to  hght  the  World's  Great  White  Way;  I  had  rather 
shine   on    for   ages   unnoticed   than   to   shine  with   borrowed 

light  and  be  afraid  of  being  blown  out;  I  had  rather " 

But  the  little  Star  found  herself  all  alone,  and  as  she  looked 
about  her  she  saw  that  each  Star  was  in  its  accustomed 
place,  and  that  each  light  was  more  brilliant  than  it  had 
ever  been  before.  Even  the  dark  clouds  had  vanished,  and 
a  little  child  looked  up  at  the  Sky  from  her  bedroom  win- 
dow and  said,  "O,  mother  dear,  see  how  beautiful  are  the 
stars  to-night!  They  are  God's  jewels,  set  in  His  Crown 
of  Glory,  aren't  they?  If  we  are  very  good  shall  we  be 
beautiful  stars  some  day  and  shine  for  Him?" 

And    the    Stars    looked    down    and    smiled    Good-night. 
And  the   brightest  of  all  the   Stars  were   the   Pleiades. 


Drawn  by  Hy.  S.   ll'atson. 
Eavesdropping. 


T  K 


o  y 


of      Living 


by  Carrie  Van  Deusen  King. 

Ittustrudon  by  Eleanor  Hchoicr. 


'This  precious  stone  set  in  a  silver  sea. 
This  blessed  plot,  this  realm,  ihis  earth." 

— Shakespeare. 

OULD  heaven  be  sweet.  If  you  and  I  were 
there, 
And    would    the    angels    bear    us    globes 
of  wine. 
Grown     rich     with     many     a     hundred 
golden   years? 
I   fear  me  not,   for  one  might  deem  you  fair 
And  take  away  what  I  had  known  as  mine. 
To  make  my  paradise  a  vale  of  tears. 

Give  me,  then,   earth  with  its  humanity. 

Born  like  a  zephyr,  soft,   among  the  trees. 

While  sunlight  dries  the   dewdrops   from   the  rose. 
Give  me  the  earth,   I  crave  not  what  may  be 
Beyond  the  height  of  skies  or  depth  of  seas; 
I   only   ask  the  love  that  mortal  knows. 

If  heaven  be  heaven  to  steal  away  the  soul 

Of   all  my   rapturous  hours,   then   give   me  life — 
Its  fog  and  dew,   its  sunlight  and  its  shade. 
Its  day  and  night — but  ever  let  me  fold 

Thee  to  my  heart,  to  keep  from  thee  all  strife. 
Whatever  woe,  whatever   ill  betide. 


.     .     .     For  one  might  deem  you  fair 
And  take  away   zvJiat   I  had  known  as  mine, 
Til   make  my  paradise  a  vale  of    tears." 


Tlie       Called      Hand 

by  Laura  Fitzhugh  Lance. 


I IIiinIiiiUdii    till  ilcDnjf    Kerr. 


m 

O  matter  what  the  game  you  play. 
Play   it   well; 
No  matter  what  the  price  you  pay. 
Never  tell. 
This   life   is  but   a   game   of   cards 
Of  mostly   losses,    few   rewards. 
The   signs   of   Destiny's    regards. 
Or    Friendship    fell. 


The  Ace  of  Spades,   King  Edward's  card. 

Or  William's   crest. 
Each   representing   different    games. 

Each  played  with  zest; 
One  stands   for  mystic  power   unknown; 
Two  play  an  act  upon   a  throne. 
Both  wanting   this   fair  earth   to  own 

And  all  the  rest! 


Eacli    representing    different   games.' 


7  lie   Lulled   Hand 


What  counts  the  cards  when  all  is  done 

If  king,   or  clown — 
If   Caesar,    Hohen^ollern's 

Written   down! 
What — in   those   palaces  on   high. 
In   astral  cities  in  the  sky 
Where  we  shall   all   meet  by  and  by — 

If   hod,   or   crown? 

For  when  we  reach  Infinity 

The    dwellers    there 
Won't  know  the  vassals   from  the  kings. 

Nor   will   they   care; 
King,    crown    and   sceptered    royalty. 
The  Here,  the  There — I,  You  and  Me 

Out   there,   out   there! 


Passing       Througk 

by  John  P.  Wade. 


ELLO,   Central!     give  me   Heaven!       (This 
club  of  ours,   I  trow. 
Is  near  enough   to  'Heaven'   for  a  mortal 

here  below.) 
Just  tell  me,  is  the  President  all  ready  for 

his  cue 
To  start  the   talent    flowing — while  I  am 
passing  through? 


"I  just  reached  town   this  morning  and  now   I'm  outward 

bound ; 
I'm  waiting  at  the  grating  like  a  'puxp    that's  in  the  pound. 
Yes,   I'm  waiting  with  a  heart-ache — I   don't  mind  telling 

you — 
Sick    with    longing    to    be    with    you — instead    of    passing 

through. 

"I  know  just  what  they're  doing.  I  can  hear  the  old 
gong  ring. 

The  toastmaster  is  asking  now  some  angel  fair  to  sing. 

I  wonder  who  the  Guests  of  Honor  are,  and  what 
they'll  do 

While  gathered  'round  the  festive  board — as  I  am  pass- 
ing through? 

"Hello!      are    these    the    Pleiads?      Well,    before    I    take 

my  leave, 
I  wish  to  say  I  envy  you  this  pleasant  Sunday  eve! 
Here's  hoping  that  I'll  see  you  all  before  you  say  adieu 
To    the    season    on    the    circle.       So    long!       I'm    passing 

through." 


springtime       Again! 

by  S.  Frances  Herschel. 


Illustration  by  W .  I).  HtvLvnu. 


P    from   the     Southland   the   sweet   Spring   is 
steahng; 
Up    by    the    brooksides    and    over    the 
fields! 
Valiant   old   Winter   goes   scuttling   before 
her; 
Force   which   has    ruled   us   reluctantly   yields. 

Where  is  Spring's  pathway?      'Tis  everywhere  round  us! 

Over    the    hillsides    and    over    the    plains. 
Kist  is  the  broad  old  Earth  back  unto   Life,   until 

Never   a  vestige  of   Winter   remains. 

Isn't  there   ever   a   corner    forgotten. 

Far  to  the  eastward  or   far  to  the  west? 
Some   lonely   hillside  or  coarse   little  meadow. 

Some   quiet   woodland   away    from   the   rest? 

Never    a   hillside   or   valley    forgotten ; 

No   little   corner   unkist   by    the   Spring; 
Each   little   bush   has   been   touched   and   awakened. 

Each   little  robin   is  trying  to  sing. 

In   through  the  depths  of  the  woodland   she's  stealing. 
Seeking   and   findmg  each   little   live   thing. 

Waiting  so   surely   the   thrill  of  her   coming — 
Joy   universal — the   Coming  of   Spring! 


'Springtime  Again!' 


From  tke   Fulness  of  the  Heart 

by  William  J.  Lampton. 


OOD  God, 

What    is   our    living? 

What   is   our   thought   and   deed? 
Have   we,    professed   behevers, 
No   substance   for  our  creed? 
Behef  is  ours,   and  mighty. 

They  tell  us,   faith  is,   yet 
The  things  we  seem   to   live    for 

Have   made   us   all   forget. 
And   love   of   wealth    and   station 

Shines   bright   above   the   goal 
That  we  have  set   for   gaining 
At   sacrifice   of   soul. 

Oh.  God, 

How  vast  the  distance 

Between   the  earth   and   sky. 
Between   man   and   his   Maker 

Is  measured  by  that  cry! 
The  hollow  vault  of  silence 

Rounds  o'er  us  and  we   stare 


From   the  Fulness  of  the  Heart 


Up  through   the  depths   and  wonder 

If  echo  answers  prayer. 
So   far  as  Strength   from  Weakness, 

So  far  is  Day   from   Night; 
Faith   stumbles   in   its   groping 

Through   Darkness  toward  the  Light. 

By  God 

We  shall   do   better; 

Be  better,  we   must  rise 
Above   the   low  horizon 

Of  selfish   enterprise; 
Be  men   and   women,   truly. 

As  we  were  made  to  be. 
With   souls   for   high   ideals 

And  hearts   of   bravery 
To  lead  us  to  the  summits 

Above    the    sordid    strife 
That  make  mankind   forgetful 

Of  what  is  best  in  life: 
To  lead   us   to  the  summits 

Of  spirit  and  of  mind. 
Where  man,  close  to  his  Maker, 

Comes  closer  to  his  kind. 


T  K 


\V 


n 


by  Francesca  di  Maria  Spaulding. 

Illustration    by  JIciuij  llahujh. 


E   comes   from   a   country    where   setting   sun 
Proclaims  that  the  day  and  its  work   are 

done; 
Where  moon  and  stars  shed  the  only  light 
On  trails  that  are  hushed  and  dim  by  night. 


He  wanders  alone  in  the  crowded  town 

Where  skies  are   forgotten  when  night  comes  down, 

Where  torches   alight  in  traffic's  name 

May    broider  the  streets  with  threads  of  flame. 

May  blazon  the  walls  in  strange  designs. 

May   rive  the  darkness  with  flashing  signs. 

But  quench  the  beam   from  each   torch  in  the  sky 

As  well  as  the  soul  of  each  passer-by. 

Aweary  at  heart  of  the  careless   throng 

He  drifted  and  reveled  with  all   too  long; 

He  yearns  for  the  stillness  of  field  and  hill. 

For   the   melodic  sound  of  a  wild  bird's  trill. 

For   the   infinite  heights  of  starry  skies. 

When  the  moon  makes  the  world  seem  paradise. 

But  he  ne'er  returns,   and  up  and  down 
He  wanders — alone — in  the  crowded  town. 


C 


"He  yearns  for  the  stillness  of  Held  and  hill, 
For  the  melodic  sound  of  a  wild  bird's  trill.' 


Xne      Ans^vered      Call 

by  George  Elliott  Cooley. 

TAR-DUST  awhirl  in  a  vortex, 

The  infinite  moving  through  all ; 
Called  to  the  soul  of  the  atoms; 
And  the  Pleiades  answered  the  call ! 


Thus  on  the  earth   when   our  souls  thrill, 
We  gather  in  groups  at  the  call; 

It's  yearning  for  love  that  impels   us. 
It's  the  Infinite  moving  through  all. 


TRUE    TRANSMUTATION 

In  this  world  tKere  are  people  scrambling  for  coin ; 

There  are  others,  we  know^,  who  are  seeking  for  fame. 
All  will-o"-the-wispers  seem  eager  to  join 

In  this  harassing,  ha^ro^ving.  hectoring  game. 
But  missing  Dame  Fortune,  they  sit  down  and  moan. 

And  oft  grumble  because  through  their  fingers  she  flits  : 
They  should  dig  for  the  tramps  philosophers  stone  : 

"  I  cant  git  what  I  -wants,  so  I  take  -what  I  gits." 


^^    t^^''^ 


Drawn  by  Charles   W.  Kahlcs. 
The  Annual  Dinner. 


H  a  1 1  r  o  u  m  a  n  1  a  ,       or 
B      oaraerla 

by  Irvin  S.  Cobb. 


The 

d 


n 


llluHtruliuH    by   O.   Cimire. 


'  ^ 


HE  Boarderland  Is  a  drear  domain  bounded 
on  the  north  by  top-floor  bedrooms,  lying 
above  the  frost-Hne,  because  the  steam  reg- 
ister always  gets  discouraged  and  quits  one 
story  below.  It  is  bounded  on  the  south 
by  basement  dining-rooms,  where  it  is  night 
six  months  a  year  and  just  before  daylight  the  rest  of  the 
time ;  on  the  east  by  an  entrance  hall  agreeably  perfumed 
with  the  combined  aroma  of  kerosene,  mother-of-onion, 
veteran  linoleum  and  the  stuffing  in  the  red-plush  sofa,  and 
on  the  west  by  a  parlor  nine  feet  wide  and  thirty-two  feet 
long,  with  one  window  in  it  and  a  doctor's  sign  in  the  win- 
dow. The  doctor's  private  office  lies  just  back  of  the  parlor, 
so  the  parlor  smells  mildewed  when  the  connecting  door  is 
closed  and  iodoformed  when  it's  open. 

Boarders,  as  the  natives  of  this  land  are  commonly  called, 
are  never  allowed  in  the  parlor  except  once,  that  occasion 
being  when  they  first  apply  for  board.  Thereafter  they 
entertain  their  company  on  the  front  stoop  in  the  summer  and 
on  the  telephone  in  the  winter.  Winter  company  is  the 
more  expensive. 


'N^, 


ii^< 


.:,;-tf^J^^ 


/ . . 


"Thereafter  they  enievtain  their  company  on  the  front  stoop." 


Hallroumania,  or  The  Boarderland. 


The  ruling  classes  of  Hallroumania  are  known  as  Land- 
ladies and  may  be  classed  generally  into  the  following  sub- 
divisions: Landladies  who  belong  to  Old  Southern  Families 
and  formerly  rode  in  Their  Own  Carriages,  but  suffered 
Heavy  Financial  Reverses  through  the  Cruel  War  brought 
on  By  Your  Mister  Lincoln ;  Landladies  who  never  married 
and  don't  regret  it;  Landladies  who  did  marry  and  frequently 
regret  it;  Landladies  who  have  no  use  for  husbands,  and 
Landladies  who  have  husbands  and  use  them  to  take  the  dog 
out. 

The  inhabitants  are  indeed  a  weird  race,  including  unrec- 
ognized geniuses,  earnest  hopers,  chronic  grouches,  back  files 
and  innocent  bystanders;  also  single  gentlemen  who  are  be- 
lieved to  have  had  what  is  known  as  A  PAST,  and  who  are 
suspected  of  leading  the  dissipated  life  because  they  come  in 
of  an  evening  with  the  odor  of  rum  and  Business  Men's 
Lunch  on  their  breath;  also  young  women  of  undoubted 
dramatic  pjower,  who  won  the  first  prize  for  elocution  at  the 
Rome  Centre  School  of  Expression  and  came  on  two  winters 
ago  to  put  Julia  Marlowe  out  of  the  business,  but  are  being 
kept  back  temporarily  owing  to  a  jealous  compact  on  the 
part  of  the  theatrical  syndicate;  also  other  young  women 
who  think  they  are  entitled  to  bird-like  notes  because  they 
had  the  thrush  once,  and  were  sent  here  at  heavy  expense  by 
fond  parents  who  imagine  New  York  as  a  place  full  of  tal- 


Hallroumama,  or  The  Boarderland. 


ented  voice-plumbers  who  know  how  to  weld  Nellie  Melba 
pipes  on  a  Ruth  Ann  larynx;  also  single  ladies  who  spend 
part  of  the  time  drying  handkerchiefs  on  the  window-panes 
and  doing  light  laundry  work  in  a  toothbrush-mug,  and  the 
rest  of  the  time  making  life  brighter  and  sweeter  for  a  pug 
dog  with  the  asthma. 

Also  dashing  gents  connected  with  leading  brokerage 
offices  downtown,  who  wear  priceless  marquise  rings  on  the 
little  finger  of  the  right  hand,  and  go  secretly  away  at  night 
owing  for  two  weeks;  also  persons  of  both  sexes  who  have 
been  misunderstood  by  the  world  and  crave  A  Little  Sym- 
pathy-— that  is  all;  also  ladies  who  are  constantly  on  the 
verge  of  moving  to  a  perfectly  delightful  place  up  in  Ninety- 
third  Street  because  a  fur-bearing  foreigner  has  opened  a 
Pants-Pressery  next  door  and  the  neighborhood  is  rapidly 
losing  its  tone;  also,  just  plain  boarders. 

A  boarder  is  often  likened  to  a  worm.  And  this  is  a 
proper  comparison  if  it  is  a  tapeworm  that  is  meant,  because 
a  tapeworm  always  knows  in  advance  what  it  is  going  to 
have  for  dinner,  and  so  does  a  boarder.  For  instance,  he 
knows  that  on  Monday  night  he  will  have  a  New  England 
boiled  dinner  that  tastes  like  the  family  wash  on  Friday 
night,  one  gill  and  part  of  the  dorsal  fin  of  a  boiled  fish,  and 
on  Sunday  evening  that  nourishing  repast  known  as  cold 
Sunday-night  tea. 


Hallroumania,  or  The  Boarderland. 


This  cold  tea  is  probably  the  most  noted  of  the  established 
institutions  of  Hallroumania,  being  constituted  as  follows: 
A  dank  cold  platter,  veneered  at  rare  intervals  with  specimens 
of  the  Old  Red  Corned-Beef  Period  of  Geology,  cut  to  the 
generous  thickness  of  gold  leaf;  a  peculiar  variety  of  potato- 
salad,  in  a  free  state  of  perspiration  and  garnished  at  inter- 
vals with  slices  of  pickled  beets,  like  a  few  red  chips  strewn 
on  the  kitty;  four  small  squares  of  petrified  pastry  (not  suit- 
able for  food,  but  could  be  given  to  hardy  children  to  cut 
their  teeth  on)  ;  a  prune-floater,  bloated  up  and  nine  days 
drowned  in  its  own  juice;  a  cup  of  ostensible  tea. 

The  common  recreations  of  The  Boarderland  are  rushing 
the  washstand-duck  in  a  dress-suit  case;  wondering  how  the 
other  boarders  can  afford  the  clothes  they  wear;  progressive 
knocking  and  raising  scandals  from  the  slip.  The  prevalent 
disease  is  Furnished  Rheumatism,  brought  on  by  living  in 
a  single-breasted  apartment,  and  is  marked  by  a  cramped, 
choking  sensation,  the  symptoms  being  almost  identical  with 
those  of  Harlem  Flatulency. 


Drawn  by  Henry  Reutcrdahl. 


"THE  FIGHT  OF  TO-MORROW" 

From   a    painting  on  the  ^vardroom  bulkhead  of  the 
Battleship  "  New  Jersey." 


Y 


e        s  I        e        u 

by  Jeffie  Forbush-Hanaford. 

Illustration  by  Thomas  Fogarty. 


X 


IRST  I  loved  two  eyes  of  black — 
Two  fascinating  eyes  of  black! 
They  glanced  at  me  and  won  my  heart 
fill  of  my  life  they  seemed  a  part, 


And  I  their  willing  captive; 
But  black  eyes  can  so  treacherous  be, 
That  even  while  they  smiled,  you  see 
They  tried  to  break  the  heart  of  me. 


Then  I  loved  two  eyes  of  gray — 

Two  limpid  eyes  of  gray! 

"Love!" — cruel  word — I  smile  in  scorn; 

Soon  I  was  left    alone,   forlorn. 

For  when  I  told  my  love's  deep  passion 

Gray  eyes  smiled  in  careless  fashion — 

No  love  for  me  they  ever  knew. 

So  I  left  them  for  two  eyes  of  blue. 


"Gray  eyes  smiled  in  careless  fashion. 


Les  Yeux. 

Two  eyes  of  sunny,   heavenly  blue — 
Two  beautiful  eyes  of  blue! 
They  gave  me  a  tender  glance  so  sweet, 
I  felt  my  happiness  was  complete 
And  their  light  was  warm  and  true; 
But  when  at  last  my  mistake  I  found, 
I  fell  in  love  with  eyes  of  brown — 
Two  glorious  eyes  of  brown. 

Bright  eyes!      Brown  eyes  of  beauty  rare. 

No  other  eyes  with  you  compare! 

Glancing    from    under    lids    drooped    down. 

Sparkling  eyes  of  dusky  brown. 

Can  I  but  win  you,  I'll  ask  no  more: 

All  my  life  I'll  worship — adore; 

Live  for  you,  work  for  you — always  content- 

If  only,  dear  brown  eyes,  you'll  consent! 


Draii'ii  by  Alexander  Popini. 
"The  Pleiades  Girl.'' 


H 


and 

by  Paul  West. 


M 


>         III^M? 


ER  locks  were  the  glow 
Of  a  dollar  or  so. 

Her  height  it  was   few  if  not   less; 
Her   eyes  were   as   gray 
As  the  end  of  the  play. 

And  she  wore,  so  they  told  me,  a  dress. 

So  I  said,   as  I   came, 

"If  you'll  whisper  your  name 
I'll    reply,    though    I'm   tempted    to    laugh.  " 

But  she  said,   "Let  me  see — 

More  and   F  equals  three. 
Which,  when  added,  is  him  and   a  half.  " 

"Are  you  certain?  "     I  cried. 

As  I  breasted  the  tide. 
"If  I   do,"   she   insisted,   "say  no." 

Whereupon   with   a   frown 

I   invited   them   down. 
For  it  never  grows  well  in  the  snow. 

There  were   more,    I've  no  doubt. 

But   I   never   found  out. 
For   the  cook  sent   the   grocer  away; 

But   I    cannot   forget 

That  she  wrote,   "Do  not   fret," 
Though   her   uncle   advised   me   to  pay. 

So  I  sit  all  alone, 

Writing   things   on   a  stone 
With   a  pen  dipped  in  beeswax  and  lard ; 

Which    I    know    I   shall   be 

When  she  comes  back  to  me. 
Though  at  present  it's  dreadfully  hard. 


Draii'u  by  F.  B.  Masters. 


T    k     e  V 


by  Charlotte  B.  Scott 

Illustration   by   Kail   Hassinann. 


HAT    is    most    important?       The    rich    man 
says,    "Weahh!" 
The  sick  man   cries   feebly,   "Ah,   no!     it 

is    'Heahh!'" 
Inventor  and  poet  contend  it  is  "Fame"; 
The  worldly     want  "Titles"     prefixed  to 
their  name. 
The  preacher  chants   solemnly,   "It  is  the   'Soul!'  " 
Ambition   says,   "Power  and   Place"    is  man's  goal; 
" 'Tis    'Pleasure'    we     seek!"      laughs    the     crown-sceptre 

throng, 
"The  world  to  amuse  us — Wine,  Woman  and   Song!" 

What  is  most  important?    "  'Tis  'Love!'  "    cries  the  lover; 
"No!"     frowns  the  physician,   "  'Tis  but  to  discover 
Some  polysyllabical   lotion    for    Pain — 
New  ways  to  cheat  Death  and  new   Honors  to  gain!" 
"All  false!"    claims  the  scientist,  "Pain  may  be  drowned. 
Love,    Pleasure,    Fame,    missed,    but   the    'Truth'    must   be 
found!" 

L'Envoi. 

Since  no  one  can  tell  you  What  Is  nor  the  Whys — 

Since  even   the  scientists  but   theorize, 

Then,  truly,  the  thing  most  important  to  do 

Is  the  thing  most  important  and  pleasing  to  you. 


"Ambifioit  says,  'Pozccr  and  Place'  is  man's  goal." 


Affaire         d'Amour 

by  Harry  Johnson. 


Illustration  hi/  E.  H.  Miner. 


HREE-POINTED    crescent— laughter-lov- 
ing moon. 
Thou  Regent  of  the  Pleiadesian  skies, 
I'll    mock    thee   if   thy   waning   comes   too 
soon. 
Yet  toast  thy  beauty  ere  its  glory  dies. 

This   Night  bewitched  me,   and   the   friendly   throng 

Was  sharper,  clearer,  with  its  merry  jest. 
Like  one  inspired,  I  rippled  into  song. 

Feeling  love's   loveliness  was   love's  behest. 

All  hearts   responded; — still   the  echoes   ring 

In  jolly  welcome   to  my  joyous   song; 
Oh,  human  harp!      If   love  but  touch   the  string. 

Adieu  to   discord,   dissonance   and  wrong! 


Nay,   one  was  mute — one  only;   but  his  eyes. 

Brimmed  to  the   lashes  with  sweet,  wistful   tears- 

So,  lovely  crescent,   as  thy  beauty  dies, 

I  quaff  to  thee,   to  him — the  cup   that  cheers. 


"Thrcc-poiiitcd  crescent — laughter-loving  moon, 
TJiou  Regent  of  the  Pleiadesiati  skies, 
I'll  mock  thee  if  thy  tvaning  comes  too  soon. 
Yet  toast  thy  beauty  ere  its  glory  dies." 


From  the  Pleiades  Club  Aulograph  Album 


p.  A  .  HATTINO 


PAUL    DUFAULT 


Et>.  ACO-CCLEY  R.ALPH    L.SCOTT 

Pleiades  Club  Officers,  1909-1910. 


From  the  Pleiades  Club  Autograph  Album 


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